In the Blood
by Secret Spy Guy
Summary: AU. After John Winchester brings home Sam, the halfblooded son of a demon, Dean finds his family slowly falling apart. As time passes, Dean stays by Sam's side, to protect him, but is it because of his own choice...or is something more sinister to blame?
1. November, 1996: The Stranger

* * *

**Spy Guy: Okays. I whipped this up today, and I'm not sure how fit it is for posting, but I thought that people would like to read it. :D Have faith in me. I get good ideas sometimes. **

**I'm more used to the DP universe, and this was kind of an experiment for me. It's AU, and will be in three parts that skip around a little. This is, of course, the beginning. The next part will be four years later, and then the final will be four years after that. Kind of an experiment in story-telling, you might say. **

**There are some terms that are exclusive to this AU-niverse, but, they're pretty easy to figure out. I'm just saying if something seems a little off, it;s probably the AU. (Or it could be a mistake. :() **

**Anyways, please enjoy. I hope you give me a chance. I would love advice for improvement. :D **

**Reviews are always welcome! (I luv reviews!) **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

* * *

**

**_November, 1996._  
**

Dean rolled over on the hard mattress, trying to ignore the metal spring digging unmercifully into his side. The run-down hotel room was freezing in the late autumn air, and his blankets were nowhere near thick enough to keep him warm. He had surrounded himself in a mound of clothes, wearing his thick, woolen jacket to help stave off the cold.

In the background, a late-night rerun of "The Munsters" played on the television, the quiet thrum of the voices filling the lonely room with familiarity.

He couldn't sleep.

Visions of the latest demon bust ran through his mind...the cries of the hosts as the monsters fled their bodies, the blood...the pleading. The sight of carnage, and the halfbloods who were crammed into a small room, their demonic heritage making them wild and feral.

There was nothing Dean hated more than demon busts.

He knew that he was being weak, and that the son of one of the greatest freelance hunters shouldn't be afraid of demons...but he couldn't stand how they looked so...human. He had known people who had been taken by demons. Close friends had _died_ because it was his _duty _to purge their bodies of the monster within. Despite his good intentions, Dean knew that inside, he was a murderer, and no amount of justification could change that...

The boy sighed as he heard tires against the gravel parking lot outside. There was the tell-tale squeak of old hinges, and the loud slam of a car door.

Dad was home.

Dean sat up, now wide awake, pulling his warm jacket tighter around his body. He heard the man's footsteps, the key in the lock, the shifting of the deadbolt. Soon, John Winchester appeared, shouldering the door open and holding what looked like a suitcase in his arms. Dean watched as the middle-aged man crossed the room, throwing the suitcase carelessly onto the vacant bed. The boy frowned, his green eyes following his father as he walked outside again, leaving the door wide open.

There was the sound of creaking hinges. Dad was getting something from the back seat. The door slammed. More footsteps. Dean felt his muscles tense as he heard two sets of shoes crunching on the gravel.

Dad appeared, ushering a young, timid boy before him. The newcomer looked as if he was in his early teens, with shaggy brown hair, and striking hazel eyes. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, bundled up in a coat that went down to his knees. Dean noted that the boy looked sickly, with an ashen face and dark bruises beneath his eyes.

"This is Sam." Dad said, resting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "He'll be with us from now on." The tone in the man's voice indicated that his word was final, but Dean felt a stab of anger and rage. Why would his father take a strange kid under his wing, to _hunt_ of all things? What kind of life would Sam be able to lead? Hunting was the _only thing_ that Dean had _ever_ known, and he hated having to grow up wounded, battered and bruised... having seen death, and having killed...

"Why?" Dean asked, his green eyes narrowing. _Why the hell would you bring a __**kid **__here? _

"Don't ask questions_,_ Dean." John Winchester growled. "Just get off your ass and let him have the bed. You can sleep on the couch tonight."

Dean obediently crawled out from inside his cocoon of clothing, giving a mumbled "yessir" in reply. He moved to take the comforter with him, but an angered glare from his father loosened his grip on the fabric. He sulked over to the lumpy couch, all the while conscious of Sam's eyes following him.

Dean lay down on his side, wrapped in his woolen coat, opening and shutting his eyes. He heard his dad climb into bed, his snoring quickly filling the room. There was a rustle of blankets as the strange boy snuggled into Dean's clothes, getting comfortable and warm, while Dean himself shivered on the cold sofa.

* * *

Dean sluggishly blinked his eyes, the hairs on the back of his neck telling him that he was being watched. His vision was blurry from sleep, but the boy wiped the fog away, and found himself suddenly face-to-face with Sam, who was standing before him, his face lined with silver trails of tears.

"What the hell?" Dean hissed, pushing himself into a sitting position. Wordlessly, the boy clambered onto the cushions beside him, his skeletal fingers clinging to Dean's jacket as he whimpered slightly.

And then he burst out crying.

The boy's loud sobs filled the hotel room, out of place in the dark night. Dean didn't know what to do, suddenly faced with the crying ten-year-old his dad had brought home. He had never been a very good shoulder to cry on... hunters were a tough breed. He was more of a cold, silent type, taking orders, and killing monsters...Having to console a troubled child was _way_ out of his league.

"Hey, you need to calm down." Dean said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. Sam sniffed, his hazel eyes glistening with tears.

"Papa's going to kill him." Sam whispered, his body trembling violently. "Papa's going to kill him, because he needs to die."

Dean's eyes widened, a chill running up his spine.

"What are you--"

"Sam, what does the man look like?"

John's commanding voice cut through the young boy's cries. Dean's father was by Sam's side in an instant, his brown eyes wide and eager, just like they were whenever he got wind of a hunt. Sam mumbled a few things, his throat clogged with sobs.

"Come on, Sam." John growled, his hands gripping the younger boy's shoulders. "Tell me what he looks like."

"Police...jacket. A-and a...bridge." The boy managed to choke out, flinching away from the man's touch. John shot to his feet, grabbing the keys to the Impala and reaching for his coat.

"Watch him, Dean." The man ordered, sloppily slipping his arms through the sleeves. "I'll be back soon."

"What the hell--

"Dean!" John snapped. "You do what you're told and _guard that kid_."

"Yes sir." Dean murmured as his father ran out the door, slamming it sharply behind him.

* * *

For a few minutes, Dean, stunned by the night's sudden events, sat numbly on the couch, listening to Sam's quieting whimpers. Soon, the boy was only sniffing, but his eyes were still red and bloodshot.

_What just happened?_ Dean asked himself, looking down at the boy who weakly clutched his jacket in his thin hands. Sam was covered in sweat, his brown hair damp in the cold room.

He had to be freezing.

"You need a blanket, kid." The older boy said, moving to get up.

"No..." Sam whispered, refusing to relinquish his grip on Dean's jacket. "Please don't go."

"I'm just getting you a blanket." The boy replied, his patience waning. "You've got to be cold."

"I'm not." Sam insisted. "Don't leave me."

Dean sighed, and settled down on the cushions, allowing the strange boy to snuggle into his side. Dean didn't push him away. His dad had told him to guard the newcomer, so he would. He would guard the kid who had interrupted their lives, and woken him in the middle of the night. He would guard the kid who said strange things, and sent his father off on some late-night chase. Because it was his duty as his father's son. He would do it because he had to.

"Will you protect me from Papa?" Sam asked softly, turning his weary eyes towards his guardian. Dean flinched, his attention snapping to the boy beside him. He kept his mouth shut, unsure of what to say in reply. He had heard Sam mention his Papa earlier when he was having his episode. From what he had said, his Papa sounded like a murderer...A crazed psychopath.

"I'll do my best." Dean replied grimly, his lips drawn into a thin line. Sam smiled slightly, whispering a strain of foreign syllables beneath his breath, snuggling deeper into the older boy's arm. For a moment, Dean felt a strange stab of affection for the child, and held him closer to his side. Sam was like a helpless infant; so innocent and scared. Dean kept his vigil beside him through the night, his eyes wide and watchful as he waited for his father to return.

* * *

John did not reappear until the sun had peeked over the horizon, and the inky sky had faded to deep blue. The man crept inside, and Dean greeted him by pressing a finger to his lips, indicating the sleeping Sam resting beside him. John nodded, quietly closing the hotel door behind him, before taking a seat on the end of the couch next to his son.

"I hate the feeling of failure." The man groaned softly, holding his head in his hands. He solemnly turned to his son, his expression pained. "Sheriff Wards is dead...and I should have been able to stop it."

Dean sat for a moment in silence, trying to piece together what he father was telling him. He knew that the sheriff had been a freelance hunter...like them...and that he had been tracking a demon and his familiars through the county...Dean also remembered Sam talking about a police jacket, and his Papa. How had Sam known what was going to happen?...and why had John believed him?

"How did you know?" Dean demanded, turning to his father. "I...I don't get it Dad."

The man smiled weakly, pointing to Sam, who still clung to Dean's jacket.

"That kid." He replied. "He sees things, Dean. Deaths, future events."

"He said his _Papa_ was going to _kill_ Sheriff Wards." The older boy snapped. "That's what he said."

"His Papa is a demon, Dean." John growled softly, his brown eyes narrowed. "The kid is a halfblood that Sheriff Wards found locked in a warehouse. Sam wanted protection from the demon, and_ I_ wanted to use his abilities to save people." He leaned back against the cushions, sighing deeply. "A helluva lot of good its done me so far."

Dean felt a shiver run down his spine again as he turned to the boy sleeping beside him.

How could Sam be a halfblood?

He looked nothing like the crazed creatures Dean had encountered, who ate human flesh, and obsessively followed their demon masters. He had seemed..._like a helpless infant; so innocent and scared..._

Dean smiled as the same strain of words floated through his mind. His previous suspicion melted away as Sam opened his eyes, slowly stirring in his arms. Looking down at the boy, Dean knew that he had no reason to be afraid. Sam was just a kid...

And Dean knew then that he would protect him from his demonic _Papa..._no matter what.

* * *

"_Are all the pieces in place?" A slithering voice asked, twin yellow eyes blinking lazily in the darkness. In a pool of light, an aging man kneeled amongst the dust of a long forgotten warehouse. He was dressed in a tattered police jacket that was stained dark in places from a deep wound right above his heart. _

_The man's eyes were pitch black. _

"_Yes. Of course, sir." The man replied, running a hand nervously through his silver hair. "I believe that we fooled John Winchester." _

"_Excellent." The demon purred as it slowly emerged from the shadows, wearing the meat suit of a young man with deep black hair and a ragged school uniform. "Little Sammy thinks that he's managed to escape me...but..." The demon laughed cruelly, his inhuman eyes flaring in the dim light. "He'll worm his way into the Winchester's hearts...and weaken their foundations. The boy always __**did**__ have a golden tongue. He'll never know he aided me until it's too late." _

"_Master, do you wish for me to follow?" The other demon asked. His superior nodded, a smirk rolling across his features. _

"_Yes," He replied, chuckling slightly. "But ditch that meat suit. The sheriff look doesn't suit you at all..."_

_The demon's familiar nodded, erupting from his host's mouth, gliding quickly through the air. The body of Sheriff Wards collapsed, a cloud of dust flying all around him as he hit the ground with a sickening thud...

* * *

  
_


	2. March, 1998: What's Hidden?

**Spy Guy: Here's chapter 2. I'm sorry for those of you I couldn't reply to. I'm sorry. :D I'll try to do better next time. **

**The Format's slightly different than I said it would be. Instead of four years after that, this is two years. And the chapter after this will pick up a few months from this. It's still an experiment, and I'm not sure if it'll work. If it seems too awkward or choppy tell me, and I'll rethink my tactics. :D **

**Enjoy.

* * *

_March, 1998._  
**

Dean could feel his breath catch in his throat as he pressed himself against the cold metal wall, feeling the thick rust pressing against his skin. Snarling reached his ears, low, gleeful; the sound of monsters taking another for their own.

Screams…Caleb's screams.

Dean steeled himself, trying to ignore the pit growing in his stomach…trying to ignore his fellow hunter's cries as the demons gathered around him, each in their human guises, vying for a chance to wear his suit.

Dean felt rage bubble up within his chest, hot and almost blinding. It took as all his will to push it aside, and concentrate on holding his hiding place. He knew that if he were to be discovered, he wouldn't stand a chance against the five creatures assembled before him. He could take out one, or two with his knife, but it wouldn't be long until he was strapped to that chair right beside his fellow human, screaming his own curses at his captors.

Finally, the demons decided, and one, dressed as an old man, came forth in a cloud of dark smoke, spilling to the ground. Dean couldn't watch, knowing that Caleb would be pursing his lips…holding his breath. The demon would get in anyways. They always did. Sometimes it took a little pushing, but in the end, Caleb would be possessed, and Dean would have to kill him.

The boy gritted his teeth, and bit back a scream, his fingers gripping the knife in his hand. He wanted to run into the circle, shouting as loud as he could. He wanted to rip and tear and maul and bash and break. He wanted to _do_ something. Not sit in silence, praying for a miracle.

But it was all he could do.

Turning back to the demons, Dean watched solemnly as the monster got to its feet, flexing the fingers of its new Caleb suit, smiling maliciously. It made a show of displaying its new, youthful body, spinning slowly as the others laughed and keened in delight. The sound made Dean sick to his stomach.

Caleb couldn't be dead...

The older hunter had been too stubborn to listen to Sam...Too stubborn to save himself. He just wanted to get out and bust the demons...send them all to oblivion.

Why hadn't Caleb listened to Sam? Sam had warned him...he had seen his death, and yet, the hunter went anyway...and Dean followed him! Sam had seen Caleb die alone...so...Dean had thought...thought that if he went with him, to back him up...then maybe...maybe...

Maybe he could be saved.

It had been wishful thinking. Dean crouched in his hiding place, trapped between a wall and an old oil drum, forced to watch as the demon in Caleb's skin quickly thrust a long dagger into its puppet's chest. The creature squealed loudly in ecstasy as it reveled in the agonized mental screams of its host.

The dagger fell to the ground with a loud clatter as the demons cheered.

There were five of them.

Dean could feel fire burning his chest...the anger he felt toward the demon scum assembled before him. He couldn't contain it anymore. The boy gripped his weapon in his hand, feeling the rough leather hilt beneath his palm. The cursed Knives were the only known weapons that could kill a demon. John Winchester had come into the possession of three very powerful ones, with sharp blades, and wicked curves. Dean had been given one as a gift for his sixteenth birthday a few months ago, and he treasured it more than anything...

It was the time to put it to good use!

The hunter sprang from his hiding place, screaming a battle cry at the top of his lungs. The circle of demons turned toward him, their reactions slow. Most were in old bodies...as if they had all taken their hosts from a retirement home.

But that didn't mean they would be weak.

The Caleb demon was the first to react, its eyes flashing black as it pointed an accusing finger at the approaching hunter.

"It's the Winchester brat! He's got one of the Knives!"

The other demons hissed, taking fighting stances, baring their teeth and flexing their fingers in preparation for a fight. Dean knew that he had no chance of winning. It was impossible. The odds were too stacked against him...

He would fall just like Caleb.

An old woman stepped up, drawing her energy together, sending Dean flying across the room with a swipe of her arm. Dean hit the ground, rolling to prevent serious energy. The last thing he needed was to break his arm, or dislocate his shoulder. He wanted to think that he had _some_ chance of making it out of the warehouse alive...even though, in reality, he didn't.

The demon was obviously higher up on the scale than he had thought...which only served to complicate things.

A sudden weight fell on his chest, mashing his body violently into the ground. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move. He could barely even breathe. Dean gasped like a fish, his eyes wide and staring as the old woman advanced on him, her own eyes as black as pitch.

"The Winchester boy, eh?" She asked, kneeling by his side. Dean swore as she pried the knife from his grasp...its blade sadly devoid of the black oil of demon blood. "You obviously haven't learned to judge demons have you? I'm bigger than whatever you've faced, and you thought I'd just fight you like an animal, tooth and nail? You were wrong hunter."

Dean groaned as her energy pressed harder on his chest, crawling up over his throat, and compressing his windpipe. He had heard stories about demons who could manipulate humans at will, but he hadn't ever come into contact with one. Neither had his dad, for that matter. They were supposed to be locked away in hell, never allowed to walk the earth...

Where had this one come from?

"Hunters make the most ideal hosts." the demon continued, running a hand over Dean's face. He flinched, hating the cold, dead feeling of the woman's skin.

"They're already fit, and strong, and their minds hold the knowledge of their teachers...their contacts, their bars, their lodges. Can you see why hunters are so valuable?"

"_Oh God…" _Dean whimpered, realizing what the demon had planned for him.

"_I'm dead…" _

It didn't take long for the demon to make its move. The woman's body lurched, black billowing from her mouth as the creature spilled forth, floating casually toward its new vessel. Dean fought against the pressure on his chest, gagging as he struggled to breathe…struggled to scream. Struggled to do anything.

He had always thought that possession would feel like fire…like every nerve ending was burning, being ripped away. Instead, it was cold, like his insides had been filled with ice. He was numb, floating in a void, catching only snatches of what the demon saw with his eyes.

He could hear the monsters' joy as they massed around their leader, the strongest of them all. Dean could feel his captor's power thrumming through his veins, but it wasn't a part of him…it wasn't _his_ power. His body belonged to the demon now…and he was helpless to stop it.

He saw Caleb kneeling before him, head bowed, a smile on his drawn lips. Excitement filled the air…pride…the demons were proud of their leader's new suit. It was Winchester's son after all. He was young, he was handsome. He would be able to string new 'suits behind him like a thread. Dean felt like crying, but his body resisted. He wasn't strong enough. He wasn't prepared enough. He was too weak to fight off the monster inside of him.

He was dead.

He fell into darkness.

* * *

A scream awoke him, dragging him from the black abyss. Suddenly, he could see the world with frightening clarity, chaos raging all around him. Dean could feel his muscles working. He was running.

"Dean!" an agonized voice cried out. The boy felt his gut clench at the sound.

It was his dad.

"_Oh God…Dad…get out of here. Let someone else kill me." _

The demon inside of him stopped running, panting slightly as it glared at the scene playing out before it.

Two of the demons were dead, their 'suits lying prone on the floor, taking their last, agonized breaths. Another demon was squaring off with John, preventing him from advancing further, attempting to draw him away from its leader.

Caleb's demon was facing a grizzled old man, one that Dean recognized to be Bobby Singer, John's best friend, and Dean's surrogate uncle. The older hunter had a cursed Knife of his own, and stabbed at his target's body, piercing the heart. Caleb let out a loud shriek, and collapsed, convulsing slightly as the demon slowly left him.

In a few moments, Dean was the only one left. The demon inside of him took a few more steps back, shaking its head.

"My followers!" It bellowed. "You will pay for that!"

"And you'll pay for taking my son, you bastard!" John growled, holding his long knife deftly in his hand, black blood dripping from its blade. Dean had never seen the man so angry in his life. He was trembling with pent up emotion, his face red with uncontrolled rage.

John Winchester was out for blood.

The demon gathered its energy together, pushing the eldest Winchester aside with a mighty sweep of its arm. Dean wanted to scream as his father smashed into a pile of wooden crates, his body immediately going as limp as a doll's.

"John!" Bobby screamed, pulling his knife from Caleb's chest. He regarded the demon cautiously, his fingers white-knuckled on the blade's hilt.

"You're one of the ancient onces, aren't you?" The hunter demanded, taking up a fighting stance. "The ones that are supposed to be locked away."

"You're a smart monkey, aren't you?" The demon mocked, running its hand through Dean's hair. "It's creatures like you that Master needs out of the way. He wants this world to be ignorant, for his children to rule." The monster drew energy into Dean's hand, allowing it to coalesce in his palm.

"There is no place in the future for you, hunter."

He readied himself to strike...

"Stop!" A voice shouted, reverberating against the walls. The demon turned towards the noise, a flare of anger stabbing its previous composure. Dean could feel only fear, knowing who the voice belonged to...

He knew that it was someone who should be back at the hotel room, or waiting in the car, just like he always did. He knew that it was someone who shouldn't be getting involved in a doomed hunt like this one.

He knew it was Sam.

The boy was running, panting heavily as he neared the center of the warehouse, drawing closer to the powerful leader with each step. Dean wanted to scream at him...demand that the boy turn back, and forget about him...but he couldn't.

He couldn't even warn him.

The demon chuckled, hurling its energy in the boy's direction, seeking to throw him into the wall. Dean fought against the creature with all his might, pushing against the walls of his prison, screaming in his head, begging the demon to leave little Sammy alone...

"_I'm supposed to protect him! I always protect him! Don't touch him!" _

Dean retreated into his abyss, not wanting to see Sammy hurt...not wanting to see his utter failure laid out in front of him.

He was dead already...why wouldn't the demon just end it?

"_Sam!!_"

* * *

There was nothing...no cries of pain...no loud thud...

Nothing...

Dean looked again, surprised to see Sam, standing only five feet away, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his hazel eyes narrowed angrily. He looked completely unharmed...

"_Like the demon's energy had no effect on him..."_

"Let him go!" Sam demanded, a growl rumbling in his throat. Dean felt himself take a step back as the demon inside squirmed uncomfortably. It didn't like Sam. It didn't like the look in his eyes...the utter confidence he held.

It was afraid.

"Why should I?" The demon barked, trying to hide its apprehension. Dean wondered what Sam was doing. He wondered why, all of a sudden, the kid had chosen to grow a backbone.

Was it because his guardian was in danger?

Sam stood still for a moment, his eyes staring wide at the creature in Dean's skin. He seemed to be mulling something over, judging his next move, trying to figure out what to do next.

"Sam! Get away from him!"

It was John's voice, strained as he weakly pulled himself from the tangle of crates. As usual, Sam ignored him completely, slowly raising his arm, completely focused on the monster before him. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes, splaying his fingers wide.

When he opened his eyes again, they were a bright yellow.

Dean suddenly felt a pull, as if something was tugging at the creature oppressing him. The demon gagged, convulsing as it clutched at its chest, coughing and spluttering. Sam continued to hold out his arm, his eyes blazing, a small trickle of blood running from his nose. Gradually, Dean felt control return to him; his limbs becoming leaden, his mouth becoming dry. He fell to his knees, coughing black smoke from his lungs, expelling the last remains of what had once been a powerful demon...

He saw Sam stumble toward him, his eyes still yellow in his sockets. The kid collapsed, clutching Dean's sleeve and crying, just as he had two years ago when they had first met. Sluggishly, the older boy embraced him, feeling tears welling in his own eyes. Whatever the kid had done, it had saved him. Sam had saved him from a lifetime of hell...

* * *

_Azazel laughed softly to himself, turning his bright yellow eyes to the demon kneeling before him. His servant was shivering in the body of a frail female child; the perfect disguise to fool any hunter. It was a weak body, but a useful one nonetheless. The demon lord preferred to take the form of a male, despite how it hindered him. Woman were generally underestimated more often than men._

"_Do you bring me news of my wayward son?" The creature asked, his hands clasped behind his back. _

_The servant nodded, replying in its small, timid voice. _

"_He used his powers a few days ago, in a warehouse formerly inhabited by one of your followers. John Winchester noticed...and he didn't like it." _

"_Is Samuel alright?" Azazel demanded, reeling on his lowly servant. The demon quickly nodded, cringing at the sight of its Master's sudden mood change. _

"_John just wants him away. He's sending him to the pastor." _

"_Sending my son to a holy place?" The demon lord barked, his eyes blazing. "That's the last thing he needs. He's already too moral for his own good. I may just have to intervene a bit. Make my presence known, to keep my son on the path that** I** have chosen for him..."

* * *

**Spy guy: Thanks for reading, and please review to tell me what you think. :D BTW, supernatural has been renewed for a fifth season. :D We'll see what happens from there. **  
_


	3. April, 1998: Pastor Jim's

**Spy Guy: Hello. Now, this chappy's not too exciting. I was having a lot of issues with it, and I'm sure it shows a little, but bear with me. I promise that it will get much better. **

**And something to keep in mind, this _is_ AU, so Sammy's a little bit different right now. Remember that he was raised by the demon, and he has a different set of morals than others. He's still good, caring Sammy, just a little different. **

**Remember that. **

**And I assure you, the next chapter is going to be EPIC.

* * *

**** _April, 1998. _  
**

_

* * *

He could feel something writhing beneath his skin, moving, turning, scratching at his insides with its long claws. It felt like the demon…as if it had not been completely destroyed…and perhaps it hadn't…maybe Sam could only weaken it…_

Dean held his head in his hands, taking deep breaths as he leaned over the hotel's filthy toilet. His stomach was rolling uncomfortably, and he quickly regretted the greasy burrito he had downed a few hours ago. Whether his illness was from the food, or the fears that still lingered after his possession, he couldn't tell, but he knew that he _was_ scared out of his mind…and hadn't managed to sleep since. Whenever he tried he would have dreams…horrible dreams where he had gone to slaughter countless people.

At first, Sam would comfort him, coming to his bedside in the night. Dean would feel the halfblood's hand against his forehead, and slowly, silently, the bad thoughts would recede, replaced by blank nothingness.

But, that all ended when one night, John, who had gotten back late from a solo hunt, saw the halfblood standing beside his son.

He had exploded, ordering Sam to his place on the couch, screaming until the normally defiant boy caved in. The oldest Winchester's excuse was weak…Dean needed to be alone to heal…but Sam had obeyed anyway, and this time, it was _he_ who was banished to sleep curled up in his jacket.

Swallowing hard, Dean pulled himself off the grubby floor, holding his hands to his stomach. Acid burned his throat, and his tongue felt swollen.

He wanted nothing more than to brush his teeth.

"Dean?" John asked, knocking on the door. "Dean? What's wrong?"

"He's sick." Sam replied.

"I know that." The man snapped in reply. Dean could almost imagine Sam's angered face as he backed away like a wounded animal. The boy had been withdrawn for days…nearly silent.

"I'm fine." The older boy replied, wiping his face off with a few squares of toilet paper. He reached down to flush the toilet, watching as the entire contents of his stomach swirled down the drain.

* * *

The road blurred by, an endless plain of dead grasses and the rare scraggly tree. The American midwest was so boring…

Dean hung his head out the window, feeling the warm breeze blow across his face. He had his music turned up, loud, just the way he liked it, but nothing could make the countryside exciting, not even Aerosmith…

Sam, on the other hand, was ecstatic, face pressed to the glass, smiling whenever he saw a lone cow grazing in the fields.

In the days that passed, Dean rested in the passenger seat of the Impala, his body feeling like he had been kicked around like a stray dog. He was sore all over, and had a network of dark bruises along his neck and chest, caused by the demon's unforeseen power.

After taking such a beating, sitting in the car was the last thing he wanted. The Impala, though amazing, was not very graceful as she cruised along the back roads, her wheels magnifying each crack in the pavement. Dean was tired of being jostled around, and all he wanted was a nice, soft bed.

Which he hadn't gotten since he was five…

"You okay Dean?" John asked, his voice gruff, as usual.

"Yeah." The boy replied, lying through his teeth. He hurt all over, as if something had turned his guts to jell-o.

"We'll be to Jim's place in a half hour. He's gonna' have dinner ready and a place for you to sleep."

Dean sighed.

Jim Murphy…the pastor who tended to his flock by day…and hunted monsters in the night. He lived in a small white house surrounded by a big green yard, with an idyllic picket fence out front. And there were little rabbits eating dandelions, and cricket's chirping, and birds singing... Dean had spent many weeks there when he was little, fishing in the pond, or kicking a soccer ball out front. It had been his haven when John went on his more dangerous hunts…

"That's where I'm staying, right?" Sam asked quietly, refusing to meet the older hunter's eyes.

A nod was the only reply he got.

Dean sighed.

"It's going to be okay, Sammy." He said softly. "Jim's a nice guy, and he can protect you. There's no better place to hide from your papa than with a holy man."

Sam nodded, unfazed by John's apathy towards him. In the year that they had been together, Dean had noticed how little the halfblood respected the old man. He would ignore orders, talk back, and even _command_ John when he didn't get his way.

The youngest Winchester knew that something about that should bother him…but for some reason…he never said a word.

* * *

Pulling up the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the Impala's tires. Dean had heard the sound many times before. When they arrived, Pastor Jim was out in his vegetable garden, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, along with a muddy flannel shirt and jeans. At the sound of the car's approach, he looked up, waving with a dirt-covered glove.

"He's a hunter?" Sam asked softly.

"Yeah." Dean replied. "Doesn't look like us, does he?"

"Welcome." Jim said as he approached, pulling his gloves from his hands. "John, it's wonderful to see you again. It's been quite a few years."

"Yeah. " The man said as he got out of the car. "Well…Dean's gotten too old for a babysitter."

"You could at least visit." The pastor admonished, clasping his hands together. "Visiting _is_ okay, John. You can give the hunt up for a few days."

The oldest Winchester said nothing in reply.

"Dean." Jim continued, moving to help the boy from the passenger seat. "You're looking a little under the weather. A nice bed looks like just what you need."

"Thank you, sir." Dean replied, wincing slightly as his feet touched the ground. His ribs were sore, and his stomach still empty, but he stood as tall as he could and tried to smile.

Dean Winchester was a strong man.

Sam slipped silently to his side, gripping the sleeve of his jacket in the nippy Minnesota morning. Jim looked down at him, his smile unwavering, but Dean could see something in his eyes…something akin to fear as he looked upon the halfblood. Dean pulled Sam closer to his side, fingers clutching protectively at the boy's coat.

"You must be Samuel." The man said, leaning down to the halfblood's level. Sam nodded, staring cautiously at the Pastor's face, seemingly assessing him. Dean had seen the boy do the same to many other hunters. Caleb, Missouri, Joshua, and Gordan were a few among that number, and those that didn't pass the test, namely Gordan, were shunned until they went away.

Dean watched as Sam finished his analysis, and carefully pulled away from his embrace, reaching out to take Jim's hand. Then, Sam smiled, his hazel eyes sparkling.

"He feels safe." He said, motioning for Dean to come closer. The Winchester boy shot the halfblood a confused glance, but shuffled over to the old man anyways, allowing Sam to, once again, cling to his sleeve.

"Dean's sick." Sam continued, staring up at Jim, an expression of fear written on his face.

"I'm fine." Dean said quickly, flashing a smile in the pastor's direction. "Just a little shook up."

"He doesn't eat anything and has bad dreams." The halfblood pressed on, gripping the leather jacket tighter. "He needs to stay here, so he can get better."

"Come on, Sam." Dean cautioned, backing away from Jim. He didn't like the old man knowing about his problems. The youngest Winchester knew that he was strong enough to take care of himself...and the last thing he needed was to be preached to again. Sam would have to learn to keep his mouth shut, to save a man's pride.

Which was a sin, according to Pastor Jim.

"Dean. Are you really having problems like that?" Jim asked, wringing his hands nervously.

"I'm fine, sir." The boy repeated. "Sammy's just worried." He laughed weakly, ruffling the halfblood's dark hair. Sam frowned at him, but remained silent.

"Pride comes before the fall, young man." The pastor said, his expression darkening.

Dean sighed.

Great...it had already started.

* * *

The dinner of mashed potatoes and grilled chicken looked anything but appealing to his warring stomach, but Dean ate anyway, feeling the Pastor's eyes on him. He doubted that he would be able to keep it down later, but for now, he was making everybody happy...

Even if the feeling was only fleeting.

Sam was eating slowly, just like he always did, taking small bites, forcing food down his throat only out of necessity. He never complained, or said a word about what he would prefer, but Dean knew that he had grown up eating things much more sinister than poultry...

Demons reared their young on human flesh and blood.

John was wolfing down his food, chewing noisily on a hunk of semi-dry chicken.

"You doing okay, Dean?" He asked, eying his son warily, his expression strangely soft. "Holding it down alright?"

"Yeah." Dean lied, smiling weakly. "I think I'll be fine tonight."

Already he was struggling to keep it down...

* * *

_The yellow-eyed demon crept along the side of the home, recoiling from the protective wards that kept pushing him away. He poked and prodded at the foundation, trying to find a weak point, so he could enter, and surprise his rogue child. The boy's scent was heavy in the air, proving that he wasn't as good at hiding as he thought. Sam had grown careless..._

_But there was no way to enter the holy man's home. The Demon growled beneath his breath, pulling his meatsuit's ragged black jacket closer around his body. Minnesota was too cold. He preferred the warm, dry heat of the desert states where he had raised his children. _

_It was as close to home as he could get._

_The demon peered through a window, hoping to see his little Sammy, but instead, he saw the Pastor, and John Winchester talking to each other. The demon sneered as he hovered before the salt line, using his sharpened hearing to listen in on their private conversation. _

"_...saw him over Dean's bed, standing there, and Dean looked like he was in pain." _

"_Where did he come from?" The pastor asked, resting in a large easy chair, his hands folded in his lap. _

"_Another hunter found him in a warehouse." John sighed, hanging his head. "Gave him to me, so I could save people. He's been with us for two years, and he just keeps getting closer and closer to Dean. He's like a wedge between us." _

"_I noticed that." The pastor murmured. "Sam was clinging to his sleeve." _

"_That's not all." The hunter continued. "Lately, I've been noticing other things."_

_Yellow eyes felt his smile widen as he relished the fear in John Winchester's voice. _

"_The kid always gets his way." John pressed on, holding his head in his hands. "I didn't notice much at first, but, he's wearing nice clothes, and he's got a portable computer, and a Walkman, and a whole bunch of other stuff. People just __**give**__ him money when they see us on the street. He used to complain about our spartan lifestyle all the time, but now, I find myself checking into fancy hotels a lot. Not enough that it's really obvious, but...I'm starting to wonder how many of my decisions are my own."_

"_Surely it isn't that bad." Jim asked. _

"_**Of course it is, Pastor." **__Yellow eyes thought to himself as he chuckled darkly beneath his breath. __**"Sammy's **__my__** child." **_

"_A few months ago, " John sighed, sitting down on an old rocking chair. "Sam suggested that we should eat healthier. Next thing I know, the hotel fridge is filled with soy milk, and granola bars and tofu. I had a fit because I remembered buying all of it, even though, normally, I wouldn't touch __**any**__ of that crap with a ten foot pole.__ I tried to throw it all away, to get it out of the room...but,next thing I know, I'm sitting at the dinner table, poking a fork at some mushy tofu paste, and drinking fake milk like there's no tomorrow."_

_The demon laughed, his eyes glinting in the darkness. Sam and his golden tongue, running circles around John Winchester. It almost made up for his disobedience. _

_Almost. _

"_His powers scare me..." John whispered, turning to his old friend, his eyes wide with suppressed fear. "I saw Sam exorcise a demon with his __**mind**__. It__ saved Dean's life but...Sam's eyes were yellow...I swear his eyes were yellow...Just like...Just like..."_

"_**Just like mine." **__The demon purred to himself, pulling away from the window. He had heard enough. Inside, past all of his carefully erected emotional walls, John was terrified of Samuel...and ultimately, that would play to his advantage..._

_Now, he just had to bide his time, and wait for an opening, so he could take his son back into his arms, to prepare him for his rightful place at the head of hell's army..._

_He would just have to wait.

* * *

_

**Spy Guy: Like I said, not too exciting. :D I hope you still like it, and I promise, tons of action in the next chappy. **

**Make sure to tell me what ya think!  
**


	4. April, 1998: In Dreams

**Spy: Okay, so I know I said that this chapter would be full of amazing actions and such, but...sadly, the writing got away from me, and you got another filler chapter starring the one and only Pastor Jim Murphy. Yeah. So, the actiony chapter was pushed back to the next one, which takes place about a month from this chapter in early May. A cookie for anyone who can guess what event may happen next chapter having to do with the beginning of May. And that will be the main plot for the next chapter, along with the action that was supposed to be in this one. I just thing that the YED needed a little more time to do what he does. And it'll be more epic next chappy. YES. **

**Also, because of the large amounts of Pastor Jim, this chapter is a little preachy. I'm just writing what I think the character would say (which is what a writer should do) so, please don't be offended. My views don't necessarily reflect all the beliefs in this chapter, and I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. **

**Thank you. **

**please review. It makes me fell all fuzzy inside.**

**

* * *

**

**April, 1998.**

**

* * *

**

_Something warm and slick ran in rivulets across his skin, coming to pool in his outstretched hands. Laughter rumbled in his throat as he brought the thick liquid to his lips, drinking in the sweet nectar of another's life._

_He looked down, grinning at the body lying before him, once familiar eyes glazed in death. _

_And in the light of the moon, he continued his feast..._

_

* * *

_

Dean felt his stomach heave as he leaned over the toilet, arms circling his torso in an attempt to quell the spasms. Even through the acidic bile coating his tongue, he could still taste blood...sour and metallic. The boy shivered as he drew back, feeling cold tile against his feverish skin as he collapsed.

For a moment, he lay there, unable to breathe, unable to help himself.

He was all consumed by his dream...and the thought of what he had done.

* * *

_Running through the open field, the hounds of hell racing by his side, their howls filling the night as he chased his prey...as he pounced...and as he reached for the knife at his side, plunging it into soft flesh--_

_

* * *

_

"Dean!" A voice called. The boy could hear the soft padding of frenzied slippered feet as someone approached, but couldn't respond...only groan as the taste of blood continued to make his stomach roll. The person pulled him upright, cleaning off his mouth and chin with a rag. Dean whimpered, his voice caught in his burning throat.

"Oh my God. Dean!"

Bare feet slapped across the tiles as another entered the bathroom, kneeling by his side. Through bleary eyes, Dean realized that it was his dad, and that the other man was Pastor Jim. Sammy stood in the doorway, keeping his distance, tears brimming in his eyes.

"Has he been like this before?" Jim demanded, flushing the toilet.

"Not since right after the possession." John replied. "Maybe a few moments, but not like this."

Dean's stomach heaved again, and he felt calloused hands on his cheeks, cradling his head as he weakly expelled the remaining contents of his stomach into the toilet.

"Dean? Are you alright?" Jim asked, once again wiping the boy's mouth. Dean shook his head, falling back into the holy man's embrace, all energy drained from his body. He was tired of feeling weak. Tired of his throat burning, and his tongue tasting of blood. He was tired of the dreams...of the feeling of something under his skin, waiting to be freed...

"John, this boy is too thin. " The man said. "He should be in a hospital."

"I couldn't do that." John replied. "You know how dangerous those places are."

Everything fell into a whir of voices as Dean struggled to remain conscious. Jim and his dad were arguing, while his stomach churned, and darkness threatened to consume him. In the back of his mind, a voice told him that he needed to be stronger...but he just couldn't find the will. He was tired...and he just wanted everything to stop...

"You should get him some water...from the kitchen." A soft voice spoke, cutting through the chaos.

Dean had nearly forgotten that Sam was there.

John wheeled around to glare at the boy, his eyes narrowed...but the halfblood was not one to be intimidated. Sam sized up the oldest Winchester, before speaking again, his voice stronger...reverberating with power.

**"Go get him some water.**" He ordered.

There was a faint shuffling as Jon hurried from the room, roughly pushing past Sam...a look of pure hatred plastered on his features.

The halfblood stood in the doorway only a few seconds more...before turning, and walking away...

Dean wanted to call after him, but the darkness chose that moment to claim him...and force him to a place where no one could reach...

A world of blood and carnage...

A world where his eyes were as black as pitch.

* * *

When he awoke, Dean realized that he was back in his bed, surrounded by a thick quilt, and a multitude of soft pillows. He felt like he had been mauled by a Wendigo, or thrown around by a vengeful spirit. His body was drained, drawn, and wracked with pain.

And the blood...

The taste would never go away.

"You're supposed to drink this when you wake up." A small voice said from his bedside. Dean turned to look, spotting Sammy resting in a chair, a bottle of water in his hands. He held it out, and the older boy drank greedily, body crying out for the cool, cold liquid. It felt so good sliding down his burning throat...he almost whimpered when Sam drew it away.

"Jim said not to let you have too much. You'll throw up again."

"I might anyways." Dean rasped, licking his chapped lips. For a moment, he reveled in the feeling of soft blankets against his skin, and feathered pillows beneath his head. Nothing could compare to a nice, warm bed...they were so much different than the ones found in seedy hotel rooms A part of him wanted to just lie there forever.

But...life had different plans.

"Is he awake?" Pastor Jim called from the doorway.

"Yes. He seems okay."

"Then please go to your room," the man continued. "Before John gets back."

Sam reluctantly left Dean's side, leaving him alone with the old hunter...

For a moment, everything was silent.

"That monster hurt you badly, didn't it?" Jim asked, taking the seat formerly occupied by the halfblood. His brows were creased with worry. Dean tried to shrug it off.

"I have to get through this." He replied. "A good hunter can't let something like this ruin him."

Jim sighed, shaking his head.

"You are not a hunter." The man murmured. "You are a young man who should be going to school, and worrying about girls...not running from demons."

The boy sighed. He had known this would come. Jim always tried to get him to stay...to leave behind the world of blood and torture that he had been born into. But hunting was is life...nothing could possibly change that.

"Please don't lecture me." Dean growled, narrowing his eyes. "Just leave me alone."

The boy leaned back against his pillow swallowing deeply, all too aware of the pastor's silent presence as the miniutes ticked by.

Pastor Jim was wrong. The only future Dean had rested in the hunt. He was good at firing weapons, not solving math problems. Instead of playing sports, he ran obstacle courses...Where small kids had been afraid of the dark, he had faced it with a shotgun...

He had been raised as a hunter...and couldn't function in the real world. Not anymore...not since he had seen his mother go up in flames. Not since everything had changed.

"Could you tell me what you've been seeing?" Jim asked after a long pause.

Dean froze.

"What?" He asked.

"What have you been seeing in your dreams?"

Dean felt a shiver run through his spine...and was suddenly all to aware of the taste in his mouth. There was no way he could share with anyone what lurked in his dreams. His thoughts were evil, meant to be hidden within the walls of his mind.

He couldn't tell _anyone..._

"Nothing." The boy replied, looking away.

"You shouldn't lie, Dean." Jim said, his voice becoming low and menacing. "And I know what you just told me is a lie."

For a moment, Dean saw a glimmer of Jim the hunter in the holy man's eyes. Underneath all his kindness...all of his caring, encouraging words, there lurked a hunter, just like all the others. His tactics and motives might differ from the hunters that lurked in the bars and backroads, but he was still capable of being ruthless...when monsters were involved.

"I've dealt with many who have been possessed. It's what I specialize in. I don't go on crusades, or hunts. I deal with the aftermath of a demon's actions...and with the few people who have been spared from their terrible ordeals. If you won't say it, I will, Dean."

The boy closed his eyes, wishing more than anything that he could just disappear...

That he would just burst into flames, and be gone...

"The dreams you've been having are showing you terrible things, aren't they?" The pastor asked. "Things that you don't want to see?"

Dean remained silent, refusing to answer the man...

"You don't have to say anything, Dean." Jim said softly, getting up from his seat. "You need time to heal, and I have arranged for you to stay here while you recover."

"Dad needs help--"

"Then he can get someone else to do it. You were not put here on this earth to be a hunter."

Jim the hunter was suddenly in full view, menacing and cold.

And Dean knew he had lost.

* * *

_Jim_ _quietly left Dean's room, making sure to shut the door softly behind him. Dean was surely one of the saddest cases he had ever seen, his body rebelling against him. The demon who had taken had been a powerful creature, and it had left an everlasting mark in the child's soul. It didn't help that Dean was so stubborn. _

_The old man spoke to hunters, and shared information with them, but inside, he hated their ways...how they cared only for the killing of monsters, and not the safety of their own kind. Children were not meant to be hunters. They were meant to be young and free..._

_And now, Dean was trapped in a life that always ended in early death... _

_Quietly, the pastor entered his study, allowing a smile to mask his features when he saw Sam nestled in a large comfy chair. The halfblood looked up at him, his gentle hazel eyes rimmed in black. He was tired..._

_"I know what you did back there." Jim said, taking his own seat beneath the light of a yellow lamp. Sam stared back at him, confusion reflecting in his face._

_"I'm not hurting anybody..." The small boy murmured, fidgeting in his seat. _

_"There are many ways to hurt a human, Samuel." Pastor Jim said. "You can hurt their feelings. You can degrade their soul. You can make them feel powerless and trapped--" _

_"Like Dean and the demon?" The halfblood asked._

_The old man nodded. _

_"The demon hurt Dean by taking away his free will. Do you see what that's done to him?" _

_There was a long moment of _s_ilence, as Sam stared down at his lap, hazel eyes half lidded. Jim stepped back for a moment, taking a seat, keeping his eyes on the quiet halfblood, wary like a rabbit before a sleeping wolf. _

_"John hates me because I make him do things." Sam whispered. The old man nodded. _

_"Humans hate feeling trapped."_

_"I was just trying to help them." The boy replied. "They need to take better care of themselves, both John and Dean."_

_His heart was in the right place..._

_"I understand, son," Jim said, clasping his hands together. "But, humans need to make decisions on their own. It is not anyone else's job to decide."_

_"Tell that to John then." The boy growled softly. "He tries to make us do things all the time." _

_Jim leaned forward, shaking his head. _

_"Maybe John isn't the best role model." He replied. "Don't you hate it when he orders you to do things?" _

_After a few moments, Sam nodded._

_"Yes." He whispered. _

_"Then can you understand why __**you**__ shouldn't give orders?"_

_After a few moments, it became clear that Sam was not going to reply. His eyes roved elsewhere, occupied by the books lining the shelves. The old man sighed, getting to his feet, deciding to try another tactic. _

_"Do you like to read, Samuel?" He asked. The boy nodded. _

_"I had my papa's familiars bring me books all the time." Sam spoke. "I don't think they could read themselves. They brought me **everything**." _

_He smiled slightly, and the pastor found himself smiling as well, despite a small voice telling him to be cautious. He had to remember that before him was not a child of the light. Samuel had been born in darkness, the spawn of a demon, possessing unnatural powers and gifted intelligence. John had reason to be afraid...but still..._

_"There are many books here. Some are new, and some are old. Pick which ones you like during your stay here."_

_"I will."_

_On a whim, the old man decided to keep going, determined to make a breakthrough. _

_"If you wish to become a better human, read these books here." Jim said, indicating the shelf of his most treasured collection. "They will teach you what you need to know in order to be a great man." _

_For a moment, the pastor saw a spark of interest in the child's eyes. That was it. _

_Samuel wanted to be human. _

_"You should go to bed Samuel. Dean must be wondering what we're talking about." _

_"Yeah..." The boy pulled himself out of the plush chair, pushing one strand of his long hair from his eyes. He stood still for a moment, before turning to the pastor, eyes wide. _

_"Do you think he'll get better?" he asked. _

_Jim paused for a moment, before replying, trying to word his response carefully. _

_"To be honest, Samuel, I'm not sure." The man said. The victims of possession are usually affected in different ways, depending on how strong the demon is. All we can do is pray." _

_Sam frowned deeply, before a look of sadness rolled over his features. For a moment...Jim wondered what he had said. Then...Sam whispered something quietly...so soft that it was almost inaudible. _

_"I can't pray..." _

_Jim looked down at the boy, surprised by the shame he saw in the child's face. Regret flooded the old man as he realized what he had done: he had just told a halfblood that in order to save his friend, he had to pray. It was like asking a cat to fly, or a fish to walk. Sam could try as much as he wanted, but surely, the Lord's name would burn his throat, just as it would his "Papa's". _

_"Then I will for you." _

_For a moment, Jim thought he saw a flicker of a smile on the boy's pale lips before he ran from the room, padding silently down the hall...toward Dean, to tell him the good news._

_

* * *

_

**spy Guy: There it is. I hope ya'll liked it. **

**I'm also trying to decide wether or not Jimmy and Cass should make a brief appearance. Tell me what you think, ya'll. Sorry if this chapter was a little preachy. It ends next chapter. I promise. **


	5. May, 1998: Unwelcome

**Spy Guy: Sorry I've taken forever to update this. Here's the next chapter. I hope the previous one didn't scare everyone away. XD **

**Enjoy, and please leave a review!**

**

* * *

**

**May, 1998**

Almost a month had passed, and spring was beginning to fade away. The trees were no longer budding, but becoming bolder, gaining strength to face the warm, dry summer. Birds were leaving their nests, flying away to new places.

Dean wanted to follow them.

He hadn't heard from his dad since the man had left, without a word, a month before. Dean's whole world now consisted of Pastor Jim, Sam, and occasionally the small town of Blue Earth. No hunting, no training, no nothing besides a few domestic chores and a couple games of soccer with some boys from Jim's flock. Other than that, Dean wandered around the house like a caged animal, restless and impatient.

The nightmares had faded a few weeks after John left. Jim gently forced him to eat, forced him to drink, and forced him to keep _going..._It was hard, but Dean wasn't going to let some _demon_ get the best of him. Not after Sam had saved him...not after Caleb's death...

Slowly, the darkness receded, and the dreams faded away. There was still something there; something that nagged at the back of his mind...but for the moment, he was free. Dean could keep going again.

* * *

It was always his job to lay the salt lines. After spending the first few weeks following the pastor around, making sure it was done right, the old man had handed the bag to him, and ordered him to finish the job himself.

And he had ever since.

Sometimes Sam watched, but only when he wasn't busy cooking, or cleaning, or doing something else so sickeningly domestic that it made Dean's skin crawl. The halfblood was enjoying his first chance at a normal life, immensely, even though he wasn't allowed to move past the wards Jim had set up around the property. The pastor wasn't taking any chances when it came to keeping the halfblood safe, and he had used every tool in his possession that wouldn't cause Sam pain as well.

Still, Dean salted the doors and windows every night, because salt was what he had always relied on, and he knew, from experience, that it would work in a pinch. It was his job to keep Sammy safe...and he would. As long as he was still at the house, he would do everything he could to protect him. Dean was restless, yes, but he had to admit that a break from the hunt was welcome...it was nice not having to worry about dying for once.

Once the lines were renewed, Dean made his way to the kitchen, where dinner was sizzling in the pan. The young man rolled his eyes when he saw Sam holding a skillet, flipping a few slices of chicken breast with practiced ease. The halfblood's taste buds had finally begun to adjust to human food, and he was starting to gain interest in it. Two weeks ago, he had announced that he liked chicken...and that was all they had eaten since.

_"He needs to gain a little weight." _Jim had said when Dean voiced his complaints. _"He'll get over it soon. Just be patient."_

"Hey, Dean." Sam said, turning away from the stove. "Jim got me some spices from town yesterday."

"Don't use too much, Sammy." The boy replied, making his way to the fridge, planning on sneaking a soda before dinner (Jim didn't keep any beer in the house). "You'll give the dear pastor heartburn."

"I'll just use a little."

The halfblood turned back to his work, reaching for a small jar of light brown powder. He opened the lid, and shook out some of the contents, stirring it around with a spatula.

Dean had missed Jim teaching Sammy to cook. By the time he was well enough to leave his room, Dean had found that the halfblood was already at home in the kitchen, experimenting, and trying new things.

"Jim wants you to set the table." Sam said. "He called to say he was coming back."

"Alright." Dean grumbled, the soda momentarily forgotten.

The boy instead moved to the drawer where the silverware and placemats were kept. He pulled them out, before shuffling to the dining room, slapping the mats down on the table, and setting the silverware out haphazardly. Did it really matter how the table was set? They were just having dinner. He had spent most of his life eating in the passenger seat of the impala, or on hotel beds. The whole "family dinner" thing, just didn't make any sense to him.

"You're not doing it right." Sam said, entering the room carrying a large plate covered in steaming chicken. He set it down on one of the mats in the center, and fixed the older boy with a displeased stare.

"It doesn't matter, Sammy." Dean replied, turning to leave the room, still intent in sneaking a coke before Jim got home.

**_"Just do it right, Dean." _ **

The boy suddenly found himself straightening mats, and organizing silverware. The spoon went on one side, knife on the other. Smallest fork to the right. Napkins folded neatly. Tablecloth unwrinkled. When Dean was finished, he felt like throwing it all to the floor. What was the point? _Why_ did it have to be neat? They could pretend to be normal all they wanted, but it wasn't going to happen. When the three of them sat down, they would still be a demon hunter, a halfblood, and a discarded meat suit. What was the point?

Something cold touched the boy's shoulder, and he turned, only to see Sam, holding a can of coke in his hand. Slowly, Dean took the offering, eyeing the halfblood warily.

"How'd you know, Sammy?" He asked, pushing his previous anger aside.

Sam shrugged.

"**_Just forget about the table." _**

With that, Dean popped open the can, and started chugging down.

* * *

It wasn't long until Pastor Jim returned, carrying a few grocery bags in his arms. The man smiled he made his way to the kitchen, inhaling deeply.

"Something smells good." He said, setting the bags down on the counter. "I can't wait to eat."

Dean watched as Sam gravitated to Jim's side, and began telling him all about his day. The man listened patiently, quickly putting the groceries away, commenting whenever it was needed. Dean, on the other hand, quickly stashed his empty coke can away, and sat down at the dining table, staring critically at the chicken before him. What he really wanted was a hamburger, cooked on a grill and topped with sickening amounts of bacon. Not chicken drowned in spices.

But...he would eat it...for Sammy.

The doorbell rang just as Sam and Jim began preparing a salad.

"Dean, can you get that?" The pastor called from the kitchen.

With a sigh, Dean got to his feet, traipsing over to the front door. He peered outside, spotting a boy around Sam's age standing on the porch, his sandy hair neat and combed. Dean opened the door and glared down at him, waiting for him to start speaking. When he didn't, the hunter took matters into his own hands.

"What do you want?" He asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Dean." Jim scolded, appearing at the young man's side. "Be polite." He then turned to their unexpected guest, smiling in the calm way that he did when speaking to strangers.

"What brings you here, young man?"

For a moment, the boy didn't speak. He simply scuffed his shoes in the dirt, before looking up, his face full of fear and worry.

"I can't find my brother." He replied. "He's been missing for a while."

"Shouldn't you go to the police?" Jim asked, a shadow passing over his face. "I'm sure that they would be able to help you more."

"No..." The boy whispered. "I'm afraid they'd just take him away, because our family's different. So I came here."

"What's your name?"

"Ansem."

"And what's your brother's name?"

Dean felt a shiver run down his spine as a smile cracked over the boy's face, and his eyes flared yellow.

"My brother's name is Sam, and our Papa wants him back."

Dean had no time to react as the pastor went flying across the room, his back hitting the opposite wall with a sickening crunch, plaster and debris raining down on him.

"I've come for Sam." The boy continued, his fingers splayed before him. _"_**_Where is he?" _**

Dean felt his body suddenly seize, and his voice work against his will.

"He's in the kitchen."

"Dean!" Jim shouted, struggling against the boy's invisible hold. "What are you doing?"

**_"Shut up!" _**

The boy's arm shot to the side, and the pastor was hurled into another wall. This time he was still...this time he didn't move. Dean tried to run for him, only to feel a vice-like grip encircle his chest and force him to the ceiling. The young hunter panicked, flashes of flames rushing before his eyes. Weakly, his hands scrabbled for his stomach, the memories of what he had seen bubbling to the surface.

Ansem sneered.

"You know what's coming, don't you?" The halfblood snarled, eyes still glowing. "You know that I'm going to move my hand, and all your guts are going to spill out onto the floor here."

"You son of a bitch-"

"**_Don't speak."_ **Ansem snarled. "I don't want to hear your whiny voice ever again. Now...**_Where is Sam?" _**

And then, suddenly, Dean was falling, barely able to brace himself against the carpet.

The first thing he saw was Sam, arm extended, fingers grasping at the air. Ansem was gagging before him, eyes bulging grotesquely from his skull. For a moment Dean was frozen, watching as Sam squeezed the life from his brother's lungs.

"Sam, stop!"

Then, there was another boy on the porch, scruffier and paler than Ansem...but with the same face.

Sam released his hold on his half brother, throwing him to the floor.

"Andy?..." He said, surprise lacing his words...but in moment, it was gone, replaced by rage.

"Both of you, get out of here." Sam demanded, eyes flaring bright yellow. "I am _not_ coming back!"

And Ansem smirked, drawing in slow, methodical breaths..

Suddenly, Dean could hear a voice in head. It started off soft, but then escalated, and demanded him to listen. There was nothing he could do to stop it. The boy pulled himself to his feet, leaning on the wall for support. He could see Sam's back, rigid as he faced down the intruders. He was unaware...unaware of everything. Dean reached for the knife he kept strapped to his ankle. It was always there...a precaution he had never been able to give up. Plucking it from its place, he held the smooth handle in his palm. Sam would never know what hit him.

Never...

Sam was so much smaller than him. He wasn't made up of muscle. He wasn't trained. the attack came as such a surprise...He didn't have time to get his powers together. The halfblood gasped as Dean's arms encircled him, and the knife was held at his throat.

"D-Dean?" He whimpered, eyes flashing back to their normal hazel. "Dean, what are you doing?"

"It looks like Deano's on our side." Ansem chuckled darkly. "He wants you to go back to Papa too."

The voices got louder and louder, telling him things that he knew were lies...but...he couldn't fight it. The louder the voice screamed, the less control he had. He pressed the knife into Sam's throat until he could feel the skin give, and red ran down his fingers.

**_How about you just beat some sense into him, Dean?_**

The knife was forgotten as Dean threw the halfblood to the floor, his leg swinging back and striking him in the gut. Sam cried out in pain, trying to scrabble to his feet, struggling to speak, only to be pushed down again and again. Dean felt a force crash into him, trying to keep him back, but it was weak, and he broke through it, dealing out all he could.

**_You can stop, for now._**

Dean pulled back, glaring down at Sam's pained form. The younger boy's eyes were yellow again, his true form showing through his human guise. Blood poured freely from his nose, and gathered at the edge of his lips.

"It's so easy to control him." Ansem gloated, circling around Sam like an animal stalking its prey. "His mind has been touched so many times, there's no walls against it. No fighting. No struggles. He'll listen to anything I say and like it."

"Leave him alone." Sam begged, wiping the blood from his face. "Ansem..."

"You left us, Sam!" The other half-blood growled, his eyes flaring. "You left us for-for this bag of meat! We _eat_ things like him! We don't abandon our family for them! **_Again, Dean!" _**

Sam whimpered as Dean brought his boot down once more, relishing the pleased tone of the voices in his head.

"Ansem. Cut it out. Papa said-"

"Sam needs to learn his lesson!" Ansem screamed, turning on his twin. "He needs to learn that he can't leave his _family_ for hunters! He can't betray us."

"We need to be getting back."

"Fine!" The half-blood spat. Dean pulled back again as the voices changed, telling him to stop. Ansem stepped forward, roughly hauling his half brother to his feet, dragging him along. Andy stepped in to help, and together they began maneuvering Sam's limp body out the door. Slowly, almost mechanically, Dean began to follow, driven by the voices echoing inside his head. Andy looked back at him, his brow furrowing, before turning to his brother.

"I'm taking this hunter with us." Ansem replied with a smirk. "I think Papa would love to get his claws into a Winchester."

* * *

_Jim awoke later...surrounded by white walls and hospital nurses. He didn't care about the pain...he didn't care about the damage. All he cared about was Sam and Dean. What had happened to them? _

_When the doctor finally told him that he had been found alone, Jim burst into tears, knowing that they had been taken to the demon...and that both of their souls were in danger of being destroyed forever. _


	6. May 1998: The Demon's Closet

**Spy Guy: Here's an update. :D Yup. It sure is an update. **

* * *

**May, 1998. **

He was forced into a pen, made of plywood and chicken wire, in a stuffy room filled with dust and the smell of sickness. Light shone from flickering industrial lanterns along the walls. The pen itself was only a few feet wide, not even big enough for Dean to lie down. There was a foul chamber pot in the corner, and a tin bowl and cup resting opposite. The boy threaded his fingers through the links in his cage, staring out at the rest of the room.

It was filled with others, all men, trapped in identical pens. They were of varying ages. some almost elderly, but none younger than their teens.

Despite how ramshackle the enclosure seemed, Dean could not escape. The varied materials held firm, fastened with some strange kind of wire, decorated in odd symbols. It was strange, but there wasn't any time to dwell on it. He knew that he had to get to Sam. He'd promised that he would keep the halfblood away from his Papa...away from the demons. Even if the boy refused to look at him...even if Sam never wanted to see him again after what his body had done...Dean _would_ save him.

The hunter angrily shook the door to his cage, pressing himself against the wire, trying to make it bend...trying to make it break. His fingers scrabbled across the metal until they were raw and bleeding. He wasn't sure how long he struggled, pounding bruised fists against his prison. The rattling of the wire echoed through the room.

"Stop!" A voice urgently whispered. Pausing for a moment, Dean looked up, finding himself facing an aging man with peppery hair and pockmarked skin.

"You're not going to get out of here." The man continued. "The noise will only bring attention to yourself."

"I have to." Dean snarled, lowering his voice.

"You _can't." _The man snapped. "You don't know what you're dealing with."

But he _did_ know. He knew that he had been taken by two of the demon's children...the demon that Sam fearfully called "Papa".

"Are we food?" Dean demanded, making sure to keep his voice soft. "For the halfbloods?"

The man's eyes widened.

"How do-"

"_Are we?_"

The prisoner shook his head.

"Some of us start off there." He began, eyes nervously flicking around the room. "But...some are sent here."

"What happens here?"

Dean never got an answer.

The doors at the far end of the room opened, and a man entered, flanked by two unarmed guards with black eyes. The man was limping, the shredded leg of his trousers soaked in dark blood. There was also red staining his white dress shirt, a blossom of color that continued to grow. The man turned to him...and that was when Dean realized that his eyes were yellow.

Yellow like Sam's, and Ansem's, and Andy's.

Yellow.

It was the demon. It was "Papa".

"I need my parent face tonight." The demon said with a wicked smirk. "Gotta keep the children in line...right?"

Dean saw the man he had been talking to shrink away, almost vanishing into the shadows. He was shaking, trembling, his former assertiveness gone. Only a demon could do that to a man.

There was a rush of air as the demon leapt from its host in a plume of black, seeping through the openings of the man's pen, forcing its way into his body. Dean couldn't watch, his mind freezing as he heard the creature take control, filling out its new meat suit with practiced skill. The discarded host fell to the floor, still...unresponsive.

The blood continued to flow.

Dean could remember the cold...the feeling of helplessness. He could remember being pushed back...and later having to watch as he attacked his fellow hunters. His stomach heaved against his will, and bile rushed through his throat, spilling to the stones below. He could feel a crawling beneath his skin...

"For a hunter, you're pretty weak." A voice laughed in his ear. Dean knew that voice. Only moments ago it had been warning him, telling him to be quiet. Now, it was cold, tinged dark by the demon using it.

"After a few times in your skin, you won't notice me, Deano." The demon chuckled, drawing away from the hunter's pen. "A rare suit indeed, hanging up among all the store-bought. Imagine...me, Azazel, wearing the face of a hunter."

Dean hadn't faced a demon since his possession. He had been protected, hidden within Pastor's Jim's home where there weren't any monsters. He should have felt defiant. He should have been brave...but all Dean could do was stare at Azazel with fear, trying to ignore the smell of blood filling the room from the creature's abandoned host.

"This was my plan all along, Dean." The demon continued. "Nothing like a halfbood to rip people apart, right? Sammy might not have been using his claws, but he ripped things up just like I hoped."

"What?" Dean demanded.

Azazel laughed.

"I'm not one to monologue, especially not to my suits. Let's suffice it to say that I have a vendetta against your daddy, Dean, and you're the perfect weapon against him. He _won't _kill you...not when there's still a chance you can be saved. But, by that time, it'll be too late."

The hunter in Dean told him that his father _would_ kill him if it came to that...because there was a demon inside his body, and he wasn't any different than any other possessed humans they'd taken down before. But, another part of him held on to the shred of hope that John would save him...or at least try.

And get them _both_ killed...

"You have your mother's face." The demon cooed, reaching towards the chicken wire, his hand ghosting through it as if it wasn't even there. His fingers were rough on Dean's already stubbled chin, holding tight onto his jaw, refusing to let him move. The boy felt a curtain of pressure wash over his body, keeping him from batting the demon's hand away.

"You're shaking, Winchester." Papa chuckled. "Still haven't gotten over your last possession? How weak, for a hunter...But, then again...most hunters don't survive possessions in the first place. That makes you special."

"He'll kill you." Dean ground out, ignoring the scent of decay surrounding him. "My dad will-"

"Are you really going to hide behind your daddy all your life?" The demon spat. "If John Winchester discovers this place, all he'll find is myself in your body. If you want to keep me out, then you better pray to hell he never shows up."

With that, the demon laughed and turned on his heel, walking out of the room, leaving his former host behind to bleed out on the floor.

* * *

Dean knew exactly where he was.

One time, John had come back from a hunt, his face covered in new scars, and his eyes a little colder. He had wordlessly went for the whisky, drinking it straight from the bottle, letting it numb his mind. For the longest time, he was silent...until he began crying, words spilling freely from his lips as he told his son what he had just witnessed.

It hadn't been a demon bust...not one like he had ever been on before. He had stumbled upon something else...something worse. He had come across rows and rows of humans, despondent, unseeing living corpses, kept in horrid conditions.

He had found a demon's closet.

The humans were all meat suits, taken by their demonic owners, and interchanged like clothing. It was an older custom, practiced by higher demons in the days when it was easier to hide knowledge from others. John never fully revealed what he had seen that day...but Dean had a good idea as he examined the faces around him. Hollow, dead faces. Some looked fresher, but none were struggling for escape. They all seemed like corpses...except for one, a boy only a few years younger than Dean, with dark curly hair and olive skin. His pen was across the aisle, two down from the one that now stood empty. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and shock registered on the boy's face as he finally noticed the newcomer.

"You're...Dean?" He asked, crawling up to the front of his pen. Dean nodded, wiping the bile from his mouth, wishing he could get rid of the fowl taste.

All he could taste was blood.

"One of the halfbloods...Ava, told me about you." The boy continued. "She said that when you arrived, Sam would come home."

"Sam's here." Dean rasped, his throat raw. Somewhere...

The boy's face fell.

"They all come back." He whispered. After that, he fell to silence.

"Who are you?" Dean asked, peering through the gloom around them.

There was a pause.

"Ava calls me Brady."

There was that name again...Ava.

"What's your real name?"

The stranger laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

"I won't say it here." He said. "You give a demon your name, you're giving it your soul. Ava calls me Brady...after one of her favorite hellhounds when she was little. I don't mind. At least it isn't 'Fluffy' or something."

"Is Ava one of Sam's sisters?" Dean asked, attempting to find a new position in his cell, one that would allow his legs room to stretch.

"Yeah." Brady replied. "Half sister. She comes in here and talks to me every night. She's nice as far as halfbloods go."

"How many are in the demon's brood altogether?"

Demons could have countless halfblooded children, depending how many mates they infected. If the ones he had met were anything to go by, they were all very powerful, and he had to know how many the demon had created.

"There's nine right now...including Ava and Sam." Brady began. "At least, that's what Ava says. I haven't met them all."

Dean nodded, trying to muddle through the chaos in his head. He was beginning to shake again, the adrenaline leaving his body, and the fear of possession creeping close. He was going to end up like the bodies around him, dried and used up. They had probably all been ridden so many times, they were accustomed to the demon's touch in their minds. Dean didn't want to be that. He didn't want to feel the cold hand gripping his mind. He never wanted that ever again.

"Sam might protect you." Brady whispered, as if trying to reassure the silent hunter. "Ava protects me. Because she likes me...Azazel never-"

"Sam's not going to defend me." Dean snapped, turning away. "This is all my fault."

The other boy fell to silence.

* * *

Dean wasn't sure when he fell asleep. All he knew was that he could feel the hard ground beneath him, unforgiving and uncomfortable. The smell of sulfur was so thick in the air, it was making his nostrils burn and his eyes water. Sitting up, the hunter felt like he was trapped in a cloud, his eyes unable to focus on anything around him; his senses dulled. He was choking...choking on something he couldn't see.

"That's enough." A voice said, cutting through the haze. That voice sounded familiar...where had he heard it before?

Suddenly, the fog was gone, and Dean could see the retreating form of a raw demon, slinking through the chain-links, its gaseous body coming to rest at its master's feet. The hunter blinked a few times, trying to clear his muddled mind, but could still smell the creature's sulfuric scent, thick in his head. Had it...had it possessed him? Had it taken control over his body without his knowledge? Dean felt a stab of fear lace through him and weakly tried to hide it.

...He wasn't sure how successful he was.

"I brought my pet to see how you would react." The voice continued. "Your subconscious mind no longer startles at the hint of sulfur. The last demon to have you must have repressed that trait. They must have been pretty powerful."

"Did you posses me?" Dean demanded, trying to find his courage. Azazel laughed.

"Not at all, child. Not this time."

Not this time...

"Don't come near me." The hunter hissed.

"What choice do you have, Deano?" The yellow-eyed demon cooed, walking closer to the bars. "I can enter your cell any time I wish. These enclosures are inscribed with ancient symbols created by my followers, and grant me instant access to any of my suits. While you are kept at bay, I am allowed to come and go as I please...and I am allowed to take anything I want. You'd best not forget that, Dean Winchester."

* * *

_The Winchester boy was not what the demon had been expecting. He had imagined a hardened man, like his father, void of compassion and consumed by the hunt. What he had found was a damaged shell of a boy, manipulated by Sam's powers and a demon's clutches. Dean Winchester was vulnerable, easy to posses. _

_Easy to turn. _

_Azazel had observed the boy over the past year as he followed his son around. In caring about Sam, Dean had driven a wedge between himself and his father, separating himself from the old hunter's protection. He made the perfect tool to lure John straight to him, and finish their battle once and for all. Whether or not he got rid of Dean afterward would be a different story. The boy __**did**__ look like his mother, with his soft face and blonde hair. He was a living memory of the only woman Azazel had ever felt affection for, and the only woman who had fought him as she did. Such spirit. Such soul that he had wished to possess. _

_Perhaps, that soul lived on in Dean. _

_The boy __**had**__ been good at handling Sammy's fiery spirit, despite how he had succumbed to his power. It was an idea...if anything. _

_Azazel turned and walked out of the closet, leaving Dean to huddle fearfully in his pen. The boy wouldn't sleep anymore, not after his late night scare. He'd sit in his cage, struggling to keep his tired eyes open, until exhaustion overcame him. Poor child. If he continued on, it would drive him mad. However, there were more pressing things to attend to. _

_Sam was sitting against the door of the demon's office, head held in his hands, small body shaking. Azazel slipped inside, glaring down at his wayward son, contemplating the child's punishment. None of his other offspring had made it for so long. Then again, none of them had found refuge with hunters. Only Samuel was smart enough to think of that. For a moment, Azazel circled his son, staring down at him with sharp yellow eyes. Sam refused to look up, fingers gripping the strands of his long hair, body curled into itself, as if he could make himself disappear. _

"_What am I going to do with you?" The demon mused to himself, pausing for a moment. _

"_I hate you." Sam growled softly. _

"_I give you shelter Sam. I give you food. I protect you from the humans out there who would kill you." _

"_You're wrong about them." _

_With that, Samuel unfurled from his ball, eyes narrowed and defiant. _

"_Am I?" Azazel demanded, his temper rising. _

_The boy nodded. _

_Azazel growled deep in his throat, storming over to his desk, nails digging into the polished wood. _

"_It's been a year, Samuel!" Azazel shouted, turning back to his son. "A year that I've been trying to get you away from that hunter." _

"_I didn't want you to!" Sam cried, becoming bolder "I was happy-"_

_Azazel wasn't going to listen to him anymore. Humans were the enemy. They were every demon's enemy, only fit to be killed or kept as meat suits. He called upon his powers, sending a wave of energy crashing into Sam's body, knocking the breath from his lungs. The boy let out a strangled cry, gasping for air. _

"_You were nothing but a tool to him!" The demon hissed. "He just wanted to use you to get to me. What did you think he was going to do to you when he was done? Did you think he was going to let you be a part of his__** family**__?" _

_Azazel could see it clear in the child's face. He __**had**__ hoped that John would take him in. He had wanted to belong to the hunters, to kill demons until the ends of the earth. It was something he was good at, using the powers given to him by his papa. _

"_You're not human!" Azazel raged. "You can pretend all you want, but to a hunter, you're just a demon who doesn't need a meat suit!" _

"_That's not true!" Sam cried, trying to regain his breath and struggle out of his father's hold. Azazel only pushed harder. _

"_Mama said-" _

"_Your mother lied to you." _

_He pushed until Sam's face turned blue, and his ribcage bowed under the pressure. It would bruise that night, reminding Sam of their chat. Pain was always a good reminder. _

_When he was through, Samuel slumped to the floor, tears forming in his eyes. He coughed, struggling to draw air into his lungs, gasping like a fish before his body cooperated. The demon stepped forward, glaring at him. _

'"_If you run from me again, I'll take your soul from you. Your beautiful soul, Samuel. I'll rip it from your body and let it fester until you know what anger is. Do you want to learn that way? Do you want to be a full demon?"_

_Weakly, Sam shook his head. _

"_Then you'd best do as I say from now on."_


	7. May 1998: Survival

**spy guy: Not the best chapter, and I'm having formatting errors. :l Oh well. SHORT AND SWEET. **

* * *

**May, 1998**

Ava was a short girl with a round face, and auburn hair. She entered the room holding a ring of keys, and headed straight toward Brady's pen, unlocking the door, and letting herself inside. She was fearless in a way that Sam wasn't, walking with confidence and defiance. She enjoyed toying with Brady's hair, and asking him questions about his family, what it was like before his capture, what kind of person he was going to be. She asked him if he'd been to a dance, or if he'd ever had a girlfriend. The young man answered each question patiently, his replies sounding tired and practiced, as if he had answered the same things countless times before.

"I was going to be a history teacher." He said. "I'm good at memorizing facts."

"That sounds boring." Ava replied, pulling at the boy's curls as she sat beside him. "Wouldn't you rather be here with me?"

"Yes."

Brady had it easy in the pen, but only because he had earned Ava's favor. For a human, with no prior knowledge of the supernatural, survival was all he had, and only if he survived, could he escape.

Satisfied by her human's answer, Ava got to her feet, and lightly kissed him on the cheek, a benign smile on her face. Then, she left, locking the pen behind her, skipping back into the hallway. The door shut with a loud crash.

Then...the room was silent.

Moments later, Dean heard the soft rustle of clothing, and turned in time to see Brady curl in on himself, his hands reaching up to cradle his head. At first, he made no other noise, but then, Dean caught the sounds of soft whimpers that quickly escalated into barely controlled sobs. No one else in the room reacted at all. They all continued to stare blindly ahead with their far-away eyes, while Brady fell apart right before them.

"Hey." Dean said, moving to the chicken mesh door of his pen. "Hey!"

The young man looked up, his brown eyes reddened with tears. It was horrible seeing him like that...he had seemed to together before.

"Were you listening the whole time?" Brady demanded. "Were you listening to how she...she always asks me those questions, and I hate it! I just want to forget, but she doesn't let me!"

"Hey..." Dean said, running his fingers through the chain links. "Get a hold of yourself."

"I would rather be doing anything, than rotting in this-this hell!"

"Shut up, or they'll hear you."

"I don't care anymore." Brady hissed. "I've been in here for months, Dean. I can still think, and I still talk, and it hurts so damn much! Why can't I be like them?" He indicated the other meat suits in the room with a sweeping motion of his hand. "The demon's tried them all on, and they don't have to deal with this-"

"Don't you say it!" Dean growled. "You don't know what it feels like."

The room fell to silence.

"God...Dean...I'm sorr-"

"You can see everything, y'know?" Dean continued. "They let you look, and no matter what you do, they're going to kill, and torture, and destroy everything right before your eyes using your body. Before you can even dream of ending up like those guys, you have to go through all of that. And it hurts. Worse than lying to a half blood. Worse than remembering. And if you make it through, you have to live with the knowledge that your body killed people, and that you were the last person they ever saw...You...you don't want that, Brady."

Dean could feel tears in his eyes, and the horrible clawing feeling in his chest. The scent of blood suddenly seemed to be everywhere, but he couldn't let it get to him...he couldn't.

"Am I doing the wrong thing?" Brady asked, his voice soft and cautious. "I just...I just don't know what else to do."

"You survive." Dean replied. "You keep surviving until an opportunity comes. Then, you run. There's nothing else you can do."

Dean fell asleep that night, from sheer exhaustion. He had tried to stay awake, holding his eyes open, humming softly to himself, but eventually, he just couldn't manage it anymore, and he found himself trapped in the world of his dreams again.

* * *

_The sky was blood red, a full moon hanging heavy and bloated in the sky. Dean walked slowly over the ash-covered ground, his bare feet sifting through it. A creature loped beside him, leaving large clawed footprints as it went, trails of oozing saliva dripping from its gaping maw. Then, something moved over the horizon, and they were off, racing through the dunes. Dean found that he could match the beast's pace, falling beside it as they ran ever closer to their prey. The air was thick and warm, and Dean could feel his lungs struggling to breathe it in, but he never stopped. Whatever they were chasing was an important target. They had to reach it. _

_They had to-_

_Then there was ripping and tearing. Flesh giving out beneath his teeth, his fingers buried in slimy, warm gore. His muscles strained as he rent and tore apart the body beneath him, throwing its limbs as far away as he could. There was screaming in his ears, high and shrill, but he didn't stop..._

_He didn't stop. _

_He didn't-_

**"Dean!"**

Dean heaved as he came to, acid rushing into his throat from his empty stomach. The boy spat it weakly onto the stone floor, wiping bile away from his lips with a trembling arm. His heart was pumping rapidly in his chest, too fast, like he had been running...but he hadn't...had he? He was still in his pen...

But he had been asleep!

Dean looked around, panic suddenly seizing his mind. What if the demon had ridden him? Would he even know? Would he?

"Dean!" A familiar voice cried out. The hunter's eyes snapped to meet the bright hazel eyes of Sam...the Sam he had failed to protect. The Sam he had hurt.

"What...what are you doing here?" Dean asked, his voice shaking.

"I came to see you." The boy whispered. "Keep your voice down. Papa doesn't know I'm here."

"I'm so sorry, Sammy." Dean pressed on, his fingers reaching out to grasp the links of his prison. "I should have-"

"Shh!" Sam urged, bringing a his index finger to his lips. The hunter instantly fell to silence.

"I know what happened at Pastor Jim's wasn't your fault." Sam whispered. "Ansem's always been able to make people do what he wants. As for this...There's not much I can do, Dean."

The halfling fell to silence for a moment, before meeting Dean's eyes, tears shining on their surfaces.

"If I make Papa angry again, he'll take my soul, Dean. I can't let that happen. It's all I have making me human."

Dean wanted to ask a million questions, but his mouth wouldn't respond. All he could do was stare up at the halfling he had spent the past year with, and hope that Sam would explain on his own...that he would understand how much Dean needed to know about what was happening to him.

"I have to go back to my training with the others." The boy continued. "I'm...I'm going to have to be a halfling again...but I don't want to."

A tear rolled down his cheek.

"I want to stay with you and Jim, and be human. I want to go to kill every monster I can find...slaughter every demon or halfling that threatens humanity. Here, I'm going to have to...have to...to _eat people_."

_"Sammy, Sammy, it's okay. I'm going to get you out of here. Somehow." _

Dean wanted to be able to say those words, over and over again, until Sam stopped crying. But, he couldn't. Something was holding him back, and making speech impossible.

_"Sammy...I need to talk to you." _

"I have to go, Dean." Sam said, wiping the tears from his face. "In case Papa starts looking for me.'

The hunter nodded, pushing his fingers through the chainlinks so he could barely touch the halfling's face.

_"I'm going to save you. I promise." _

And then, Sam was gone...and the room was once again shrouded in darkness.

* * *

_Azazel didn't go to see __**it**__ often. Sometimes, he forgot that it was there, kept in near silence by sigils carved into the soft flesh of its throat. It had a voice that could shatter glass, and rip demons apart...but without that?...it was almost powerless; an ancient, magnificent creature, folded up and shoved into the body of a young man. _

_The demon carefully unlocked the door, entering the creature's cell quietly. It was lying in the corner, black wings folded against its host's slight body, head tucked beneath one arm. It was almost cute how it slept like a little bird, and not the holy warrior it truly was. Time on earth had made it soft. Made it scared. Cut off from the others, it was nothing more than an abnormal beast._

_"Castiel?" Azazel called. With a jolt, the angel stirred, bright blue eyes standing out against the bruised skin of its borrowed face. _

_"Yes?" The creature strained, forced to speak using its host's human vocal chords. _

_"Are you ready to tell me what Zachariah is planning?" The demon demanded, letting his eyes flare an unnatural yellow. He could see the fear reflected in his prisoner's face, and smiled smugly as Castiel failed again and again to look him in the eyes. The angel before him was little more than a fledgling, raised in heaven and unused to facing down true evil. A poor choice to send out on a mission of such importance. _

_"I told you." Castiel replied, looking away. "He is searching for the sword of the archangel Michael-" _

_"There is no such thing!" Azazel shouted, lashing out with his power. Castiel screamed, wings convulsing as it was forced into the concrete wall with bone-breaking force. _

_"I have spoken with my master. He said that the sword was destroyed centuries before your creation.." _

_"I was told...to find...find the sword." Castiel strained. "Zachariah... told me that I would...know it when I saw it." _

_With a frustrated growl, Azazel let the angel fall to the ground in a heap of feathers and limbs. _

_"How long have we been at this?" The demon asked, pressing Castiel's face into the floor with a burst of power. _

_The angel didn't reply...not with words. It keened loudly, the closest it could get to screaming in its true voice. _

_Azazel glared at the creature before him, feeling disgust well up within his chest. Angels held far less power than demons. They were defenseless, many relying on human weapons to complete their missions. Their wings and their voices were the only advantages they had against the enemy...but those were two very simple things to take care of. So fragile...so vulnerable..._

_The demon contemplated Castiel's wings for a moment, his eyes roving over the inky black feathers. They were beautiful, but odd in color, large, protruding from the young man's bare back, surrounded by scarred flesh. _

_"Your wings are very important to you, aren't they?" _

_"Very." Castiel whimpered, face still buried in the stone floor. _

_Azazel smirked. _

_"Oh how easily I could take them away..."_


	8. May 1998: Interlude

**Spy Guy: Kind of a different chapter, not the best (but I always say that don't I?) Yup. :l Here it is. **

* * *

**May, 1998**

There had been a time when Papa had wanted them kept apart, separated, so they wouldn't become attached to one another. Sam knew their faces...he knew their names, but they were nothing more than strangers to him. His clearest memories were of traveling across the country with his handler, a demon who took the place of Papa. That demon was gone, Sheriff Wards had killed it...and after that, Sam had made the deal with John Winchester and bought himself a chance at freedom.

When suddenly thrown in among them, his half brothers and sisters, all part demons themselves, Sam was at a loss. Papa had always told him that there would be blood in the end; a violent battle that would cull the herd, and leave only one victorious. To him, all of his brothers and sisters were enemies. Someday, he would have to kill them all, or perish himself.

Not that there were a lot left.

They were all being kept in a windowless basement deep within Azazel's latest compound. There were bunk beds against the far wall...a curtain hiding a small washroom, a tiny sitting area adorned with pillows. He recognized Ava immediately, sitting in a corner with a magazine in her hands. Jake was lifting weights quietly, as dark and brooding as ever.

As Sam entered the room, Andy and Ansem looked up from the rat they were toying with, and smiled in unison.

"Where are the others?" Sam asked, stopping in his tracks

"Hunters got most of them." Ansem replied, letting the rat scurry away. "Scott and Max kind of went off the deep end. Papa's keeping an eye on them. Lilly comes and goes."

"That's it?"

The last time he had seen his brethren, there had been dozens, too many names and faces for him to remember. It was hard to believe that all of them were gone...

"It's been a long time since we've seen you." Ava said, putting her magazine aside. "Years."

"Everyone's gunning for us." Jake growled, setting the weights aside. His muscles were almost bulging out of his shirt, disproportionate to the rest of his body. "It doesn't help that some have been _stupid,_ turning their backs against us. It makes me sick."

Sam didn't reply. He walked away, searching for a bed that didn't seem used. There were many more beds than people...beds left by his fallen brothers. He knew that he should feel _something..._A human would feel something. It was his family.

It was the family he had been groomed to kill.

"What happened to the handlers?"

"Someone leaked their whereabouts to a hunter." Ansem whispered, his voice eerily dead. "Then, that hunter told the whole lot of them, and they all went out, and started killing."

Sam remembered the last weeks he had shared with his handler...locked up in that warehouse. Those were days he didn't like to remember. He didn't like being cold and scared, left to himself for days at a time.

"They were doing a shit job protecting us." Ansem continued, hand reaching out to grab his twin's arm. "We only have each other now. Papa says so."

So, something had changed. They were no longer enemies. They would no longer have to fight each other. That meant that something was up, something had altered their Papa's plans.

"What's going on?"

"Like we'd tell you." Jake spat, getting to his feet, and stalking towards the stairs. "Hanging out with hunters and holy men." The boy narrowed his chocolate eyes, pointing a finger in Sam's direction. "You'd better watch yourself, because I'll make sure to stab _you_ in the back before you stab me."

"We're supposed to be a family!" Ansem suddenly shouted, his grip on his brother's arm tightening. "Sam made a mistake. Lots of us did." (Sam didn't miss the angered look he shot his twin) "But, we all came back from it. Sam's going to too. Right Sam?"

And suddenly, every pair of eyes in the room was on him, and Sam could feel the pressure, growing in his chest. He didn't know what to say. Did he _want_ to be a part of them? A part of his Papa's plans? No. He didn't. He wanted nothing to do with Azazel, or any of the halfbloods. But to say that now...

"What happened to killing each other?" He asked.

"We're stronger together." Ansem replied. "Papa said so."

Jake scoffed and climbed the stairs, disappearing from view. Ava went back to reading her magazine. Ansem stood, dragging Andy up with him.

"Maybe you should get Papa to show you Max, and Scott, and Lilly. Maybe then, you'll understand why we have to stick together."

"Maybe I will." Sam replied, glaring.

"Samuel, is that any way to speak to your brother?"

The room suddenly fell silent. All eyes turned to the stairs, where Papa stood, dressed in a long dusty coat, his face mostly obscured by his favorite wide-brimmed hat. The special children all took notice: Ava setting aside her magazine, Ansem relaxing his grip on Andy's sleeve. Sam simply held his ground, fists clenched at his sides.

"You're a family now." Azazel continued, resting his hand on his son's shoulder. "All of you. There won't be anymore war. No fighting. You're all stronger together."

"What changed your mind?" Sam asked, trying to shy away. Papa's grip only tightened.

"You've missed a lot, Samuel." He said. "Come...I believe I need to show you something."

* * *

Sam was led up the stairs, and down a dank, musty hallway, lined with rusted metal paneling. Azazel's hand didn't leave his shoulder the entire time, guiding him, but also preventing his escape. They passed through several locked doors, guarded by black-eyed demons in ill-fitting meat suits, until they came to a room held shut with a large padlock. Papa slipped a skeleton key from his pocket, and held it up to the light, showing off the symbols engraved into the metal.

"You're not going to believe what I've found." He said with a wicked grin. "It's not everyday a halfblood gets to see one of these creatures. You should feel honored."

And the door opened.

The first thing Sam saw was a mass of blood and feathers lying on the floor before him. Clumps of broken pinions and shed down scattered the area, stuck together with dried, tacky blood. Azazel was laughing, stuffing the key back into his pocket, ushering his child forward.

"That's an angel, Sam." The demon said.

And then Sam saw it.

The angel had dark wings, mat black and devoid of luster. The hair of his host was the same shade, and he looked to be no older than Dean. He was huddled in a corner, body curled in on itself in pain, and there were symbols carved deep into the skin of his neck, red and puffy with infection.

"Pathetic creatures." The demon said, nudging the angel with his shoe. "They can't think for themselves. They can only follow orders."

The creature sluggishly blinked its borrowed eyes, a soft whimper echoing from its throat as it struggled for breath, chest heaving. He shuffled his wings, kicking up a flurry of shed down, hands weakly scrabbling for purchase on the floor. Sam watched it struggle for a while, rooted to the spot as the angel began to stir, and the pain hit him bit by agonizing bit.

"What did you do to it?" Sam demanded, unable to look away from the pathetic sight.

"I simply wanted some information." The demon replied. "But the dumb animal won't talk. Doesn't know what's good for him."

"S-s-ilence." The angel suddenly rasped, and Sam could see blood on his teeth. "I told you why I'm here."

Azazel's arm whipped out, a wave of power exploding from his fingertips, crashing into the angel, and forcing him up against the wall.

"It came to kill you, Sam." The demon spat. "All of my special children. The only ones I have left!"

He threw the creature to the floor, thrusting his palm down, letting the energy crush the host's ribs and spine. The angel made no sound, but the pain was clear in his face, his features distorted, eyes bulging out of his skull.

As Sam stood there, watching his papa torture the holy creature, something in his mind clicked. He was suddenly filled with the need to protect the angel before him, the thing that stood for the side of good in this war he'd been forced into. If he _ever_ wanted to redeem himself, he would have to be on the side of angels.

Sam drew his own power into his hands, using it to push his papa back, and make him lose his concentration. Azazel glared at his son, quickly regaining his composure, and forcing Sam back against the wall, invisible fingers curling around his neck.

"If you think defending this _thing_ is going to help you make good, you're sorely mistaken." He hissed. "You should be loyal to your family! Not some filthy pigeon!"

"You raised me to kill my family!" Sam spat.

"Things change." The demon whispered. "The sooner you learn that, the better."

* * *

_The sword was close. He could feel it-__**hear it**__-its song echoing constantly through his mind. As the demon battered his body again, violated his wings, and threatened to tear out his grace, Castiel could only hold onto its simple melody, and dream of the day he would find its source, and be able to return to heaven. _

_...However, he couldn't help but wonder if that day would ever come. _


	9. June 1998: Angels

**Spy Guy: Next chappy! :D The action scene in here wasn't as exciting as I'd hoped, but...it happened. Characters just keep worming their way into this AU left and right. There are three in this chapter who weren't supposed to be here. **

:l

* * *

_**June, 1998.**_

Chuck Shurley wasn't very old, but he wrote endlessly, his hand coasting over the paper as he filled sheet after sheet with his story of demons and hunters. The doctor encouraged it, telling him that hobbies were good for his health.

It had been even better when a local publisher suddenly showed interest in him, and started printing his novels. "Supernatural" wasn't exactly a hit, but it was enough to pay the bills, and keep him stocked with enough booze to make the pain go away.

Chuck was sitting at his desk, wrapped in an old robe, fighting a wicked hangover, while trying to edit his latest chapter. His head was pounding. He just wanted to sleep.

Then, there was a knock at the door; a loud ear-splitting knock that Chuck tried to drown out by clapping his hands over his ears. However, the person outside was persistent, and eventually, the writer forced himself to go answer it.

Standing on his porch was a man in a black suit; around 50, balding, a bit overweight. Chuck sighed when he saw him, feeling pain flare behind his eyes.

It was his publisher...Mr. Alder.

Mr. Alder ran a small company near-by, and he'd occasionally pop in for surprise visits. Apparently, this was going to be one of those days, and the man strolled inside smiling broadly.

"Hello." Chuck said, shutting the door. "I wasn't really..."

"Morning, Mr. Edlund." Alder said, with a wink. "Too busy writing to get dressed today? How's it coming?"

"The manuscript really isn't done yet." Chuck stammered, quickly trying to gather together a pile of papers from his messy desk. "I thought I had more time."

"You do." Mr Alder assured him, smiling. "I just want to see where it's going. What you've got planned for the future."

"Oh." Chuck replied, still fumbling around. "Well...Dean and Sam get captured by some demons. It's...It's going a...different route than I-I thought it would. What do you-" He cut himself off, biting his lip as he tried to find the courage to tell the truth. "What do you think about...angels?"

Alder frowned.

"It's a stupid idea, I know." Chuck replied, burying his fingers in his greasy hair, "But that's just where the story's going, and I have to-"

"It's fine." The publisher replied, smiling reassuringly. "You go with your instincts, Champ. Would you happen to have any of it written?"

Chuck shook his head.

"But, I can tell you what happens, i-if you want."

"Go for it."

The man cleared his throat, trying to piece together the fragments of visions he had seen the previous night. His story of demons and hunters had suddenly taken a strange turn, making him wonder if his mother had been right; if what he saw was much more than just something of his imagination.

"Azazel takes Dean and Sam back to his compound...and he has an angel there, named Castiel. The demon tortures him for information."

"Information?" Alder asks, tilting his head. "About what?"

Chuck paused, trying to recall the conversation as best he could. This brought into his mind the accompanying images; visions of the angel being beaten, and his wings abused.

"_I was told...to find...find the sword...Zachariah... told me that I would...know it when I saw it." _

"He wants to know why Castiel is on earth." The writer replied, the images flowing clearer the more he tried to summon them. "Castiel is searching for the sword of the archangel, Michael, but it-it's not a sword."

Alder dropped the paper weight he had been toying with, eyes growing wide.

"It's not?"

"It's a human."

Mr. Alder nodded, as if contemplating the idea, a cold expression on his face. Chuck wrung his hands, waiting nervously for a response. He had never altered anything in his stories before, but with each published volume and finished manuscript, he dreaded being asked to make some changes...It was bad enough writing it down on paper...

"Can you tell me the whole story?" The publisher said, taking a seat in a dusty old recliner. "I'd like to hear more."

* * *

Dean wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep. He only knew that he was suddenly awake, torn away from dreams that were soaked in flames, and filled with screams. He awoke to the sound of rattling chainlinks, the normally vegetative meat suits pressing their hollow faces against the doors of their pens, letting out low moans of agony.

"What's going on?" Dean demanded, turning to Brady's cell.

"I don't know." The young man said, peering through the gaps in his prison's walls. "I was sleeping, and I woke up, and they were all like this."

The air was charged with energy, a sensation that ran along Dean's skin. The young man turned to his arm, seeing the light hairs standing on end, slowly pointing toward the closet door, as though drawn there by a static charge. Dean held his breath, staring at the door, his hunter's instincts screaming at him to run. Run. Something was out there...and it wasn't good.

The meat suits started screaming as something hurled itself against the door, denting the metal, and making the hinges groan. Dean forced himself to his feet, trying to ignore how weak he was, how his head spun as he leaned against one wall of his pen. He hadn't moved in days, trying to stave off sleep, unable to keep food down. But something was out there, and if he had to go, he was going to go out with a fight. Not a whimper. Not the scared piece of flesh that Azazel was trying to turn him into. He was going to go out a hunter...as proudly as he could.

"Dean!" Brady shouted over the noise. "What should I do?"

"Stand your ground." The boy replied, watching as the door was wrenched opened just a sliver, and a very human-looking hand tried to claw its way through. "I don't know what we're up against."

The screaming escalated, and Dean fought the urge to cover his ears, to drown it out. He could now hear the sounds of battle through the gap in the door; the shrieks of demons tearing from their meat suits, the clanging sound of knives clashing. It was only a few seconds before the _things_ outside managed to rip the door away, and barreled inside, carrying balls of white light to show them the way.

There were five of them, all dressed in black suits and ties. Several carried long, thin silver knives, stained with black demon blood.

"_Christo."_ Dean murmured beneath his breath, trying to pull himself into the shadows of his pen. None of the intruders flinched, their eyes devoid of black. If it weren't for the light spheres in their hands, or the inhuman force they had used to open the door...he might have thought he wasn't dealing with monsters at all.

In reality...it just meant that they were monsters he hadn't encountered before.

"Dean Winchester!" One shouted, moving from within the center of the pack. He was a large, imposing man, with dark chocolate skin, and a deep voice.

"These humans show no intelligence, Uriel." Another spat. "The sword cannot be in here."

The first reeled on him, commanding a power that told Dean he was the leader.

"These were the instructions given by the prophet!" The man shouted. "You doubt his word, and you are doubting the word of our Father. Search the pens before I smite you for your blasphemy! This boy is a hunter. He's no fool."

The creatures spread out, peeking into the pens around them, ignoring the screaming, mindless meat suits, moving on in search of...of...

Of him.

"Are you Dean Winchester?" One asked, leaning towards Brady's cell.

"No." The young man replied, shaking his head.

"You better not be lying!" The creature hissed, poking his sword through the links.

"Hey!" Dean shouted. "Leave him alone, you dick!"

The leader, Uriel, chuckled, sidling toward Dean's pen, holding up his sphere of light to illuminate his target's face.

"Look what I've found." He said. "Either you're simply a noble creature among the brainless, or you're the one we're looking for. Is your name Dean Winchester?"

"Yes." Dean replied, standing his ground as best he could. His legs were shaking, not out of fear. He wasn't afraid of _these _things. He was exhausted, eyes barely able to stay open, even when fueled by adrenaline.

Uriel sniffed, crinkling up his nose.

"You smell like acid and sulphur." He spat. "I'm not sure you're even worth it anymore."

"What the hell are you?" Dean demanded. Uriel laughed again, his hand plunging forward through the chainlink, the metal melting away, and dripping to the floor. Dean didn't have any time to react; he couldn't run, couldn't move. The creature placed two of his fingers against the boy's forehead, eyes igniting with an ethereal white light.

"We are warriors of heaven, boy." He said. Dean couldn't move. He was trapped by the light in the creature's eyes, a light that seemed so bright and clean after all his time spent in the demon's keep. In the man's eyes, he could see an endless road, him, the Impala, his mother, his father...Sammy. He could smell fresh air, see endless blue skies, and clear nights.

"We're angels." Uriel said, a grin splitting across his face, showing off perfect white teeth. Then, with a flash of light, Dean slumped bonelessly to the floor.

* * *

Castiel felt dirty and unclean, his body reeking of the demon's scent, his wings twisted and broken, clumps of feathers littering the ground around him. Azazel had ripped them out, in large chunks, laughing as the angel cried out for mercy...mercy that the demon did not possess.

The angel was nearly immobilized by his wings, every move he made jostling them, making the pain worse. The appendages were heavy, dead weight on his bare back...useless; a burden holding him down.

Castiel had somehow managed to pull himself into the corner of the room, and hide his head in his ruined wings. He felt comforted by the familiar scent of warm feathers; remembered how, only months ago, he had nested with his brothers up in heaven...before he had been assigned the task of finding Michael's sword. He had been so honored at the time, a lowly angel entrusted with finding the most important weapon of the archangels. But now, all he wanted was to be back with his brothers, nestled among the clouds, safe, and away from the pain, and the blood, and the torture. Away from Azazel and his evils.

He cringed when he heard the door open. Nothing good ever came from someone entering the room. It had to be Azazel, ready to break him even more. Or maybe Alistair, who was only allowed to use words to hurt, but was very adept with handling a knife. With a pained keen, Castiel pulled tighter into himself, wings shifting awkwardly, making the angel see white. He couldn't carry on like this. Not much longer. It wouldn't be long before his grace died and his mission went unfulfilled.

It hurt knowing how close he was to success. The sword was here, hidden in Azazel's compound. Castiel could hear it, calling out to him...and he yearned to chase after it. To find it and be welcomed back into heaven so he could heal.

But he couldn't...he was trapped, cut off from his brothers by the sigils around his neck. The sigils that caused him constant pain, dampened his voice, and hid him from view.

"Cas?" A soft voice called across the room. Castiel immediately tried to sit up, blinking his eyes as he saw his brother, Balthazar, standing before him, large grey wings folded behind his back, arms spattered with black blood, his hand holding a silver blade.

"Brother." The wounded angel rasped, "You found me."

Balthazar seemed frozen, his eyes scanning the room, taking in the puddles of dried blood, and the clumps of feathers scattered about. His grip on the blade tightened, and anger flared in his eyes.

"What has that demon been doing to you?" The angel demanded, crouching by his brother's side. "Cas, are you alright? Bloody hell, Castiel, your neck."

"I can't speak." The younger angel whimpered. "He took away my voice."

"Shhh..." Balthazar said, tucking his weapon away, and gathering his brother into his arms, careful not to jostle his mangled wings any more than necessary. "Uriel has found the sword, and Joshua can fix this, alright? I'll find someone to fix this.

"I promise, little brother."


	10. June 1998: Zachariah

**Spy Guy: Here's the next chapter. Not much action here, but we get to see what happened to Dean and Cas. Balthazar's a bit ooc here, but...yeah. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**June, 1998**

_No longer was he on the hunt...there was raw fear racing through his system as he stumbled across the sand, struggling to keep his footing on the insubstantial terrain. The hounds would pull at his clothes, urging him on whenever he fell. He knew that they felt the fear too...he knew that they could also see the burning ball of light that lingered just beyond his vision, the pure energy that was chasing him. _

_Dean tried to climb the steep sand dune before him, hands bleeding and broken as he struggled to reach the top. It was so far out of his reach, and he kept slipping, hands grasping at insubstantial grains of sand, arms flailing as panic overtook him, and the ball of light grew closer. One of the hounds grabbed his arm, black teeth digging into burned skin, and pulled. Dean screamed in pain, but let it drag him, let it attempt to save him..._

_But it wasn't enough. _

_The light consumed him; ate away at his feet, and gorged itself on the darkness nestled in his soul. Dean screamed again as the black was ripped away, destroyed, and he was left feeling empty. With a howl, the hell hounds abandoned him, scampering away, saving themselves, their hunting partner no longer tainted, too pure to run with. _

_Dean cried out one more time as the light consumed him...and everything turned white. _

Slowly, Dean opened his eyes.

He felt like he was floating, his body suspended on air, no longer surrounded by hard unyielding stone. Above him, he could see the sky, filled with white, fluffy clouds, and the promise of freedom. He couldn't help but allow himself a small smile.

He was free.

He wasn't sure how, but suddenly, his soul didn't feel like a stone in his chest. It felt light, airy, unburdened by the darkness that had once eaten away at his mind and body. Dean wanted to lay there forever, staring at the endless sky, allowing his eyes to drink in it's perfect baby blue hue; to find shapes in the clouds, just like he used to do when he was four-

But...the hunter quickly realized that all was not as it seemed.

The clouds weren't moving, and, as he blinked a few times, his vision cleared, and Dean could clearly see the obvious brush strokes left by a painter's hand. It was only a mural, carefully created on the ceiling above him, and instead of floating on air, Dean was resting on a large velvet cushion, surrounded by tasseled pillows.

"_Either you're simply a noble creature among the brainless, or you're the one we're looking for. Is your name Dean Winchester?"_

Everything came back to him all at once; the meatsuits screaming, the sounds of battle.

The angels...

"Ah, you're awake."

The young hunter looked up, only to see a tall, somewhat portly, man standing before him, silver hair slicked back. The man was wearing a finely tailored suit, smiling slyly as he brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his lapel. But, that wasn't what had Dean's eyes widening, both in shock and fear.

"Don't look so surprised." The man said, chuckling as he caught the hunter's reaction. "Didn't your mother ever tell you about angels?"

Dean glared at the stranger.

His mom had always talked about angels...she had told him every night that they were watching over him. He had believed her, then, but, after a lifetime of immersing himself in the dark world of the supernatural, having to watch innocent after innocent be taken by evil forces, he had stopped hoping that there was something good out there to counteract it.

The man smiled, his lips pulling just a little too wide for a human, and spread his large silver wings, flapping them lazily.

"My name is Zachariah." The man continued, strolling to the grand dining table at the center of the room, selecting a steaming bowl of soup and a roll from what seemed like an endless buffet of food. "I was the angel in charge of finding you, Dean. Took longer than I thought it would."

"I don't believe in angels." Dean spat, narrowing his eyes. Zachariah simply nodded, holding out the food for the boy to take, but when Dean refused to move, his grip on the bowl tightened until his knuckles shone white.

"You need to eat." The creature said, his voice suddenly cold.

"My Dad told me never to take food from strangers."

Dean had missed being able to bite back, to hurl insults just as effectively as bullets. In this place, he was feeling stronger, bolder, his body not quite as weak, his soul not quite as heavy. Zachariah, however, didn't seem at all amused by Dean's bravado.

"We saved you." He said, face turning red from anger. "The least you could do is be grateful."

"Why should I be grateful?" The hunter snarled. "You just took me from one prison to the next."

The angel huffed.

"What makes you think this is a prison?"

Dean's eyes snapped around the room, confirming his previous suspicions.

"There's no door." He said. "Unless there's one hidden behind a painting or something, there's no way for me to get out of here. So, it's a prison."

Zachariah took a deep breath, recollecting his composure, that sickening inhuman smile curling over his lips.

"Hunters are always too observant." He scoffed. "But, this is much nicer than your last prison, isn't it? A comfortable place to sleep, all the food you want? No worries of demons, or possessions? No more having Azazel torment you? What more do you want?"

"I want to go back to my Dad." Dean spat. "I sure as hell don't want to be here."

"You're not leaving," Zachariah hissed, holding out the bowl of soup. Dean batted it away, spilling the broth onto the cushion. With a snarl, the angel tossed the bowl aside, seizing Dean by his collar, shaking him viciously.

"I saved your soul, you ungrateful little imp. Your soul _and_ your body. That demon would have worn you like a suit, and then thrown your carcass away, and left you to rot. You don't remember how far gone you were, do you? How it felt to waste away?"

Dean gasped as hunger pains tore through his stomach, all of his energy suddenly gone. The darkness was back, festering just behind his ribcage, devouring his soul, bit by agonizing bit. He could smell sulfur, feel the cold touch of a raw demon on his skin. He tried to vomit, but there was nothing but acid, and the hunter could only writhe weakly in Zachariah's grasp, body trembling.

"This is how you were in the pens." The angel said with a chuckle. "Nothing more than a half-dead shell of a human. I could leave you like this. You wouldn't die, but you'd never heal. And maybe I could throw in a few other ailments, just for good measure."

Dean suddenly felt cold, then hot. He coughed, a deep rattling sound emanating from his chest. His skin itched, redness creeping along his arms, his flesh peeling away.

Then as soon as it had set in, everything was gone. Zachariah dropped a stunned Dean onto the cushion, setting the roll by his trembling hands.

"You shouldn't underestimate my power." The angel hissed. "I can do ten-times the damage that demon ever could. Your father never taught you how to behave around angels, did he?"

Dean could only stare, his throat still burning, mind fuzzy and confused.

"You can't fight an angel, Dean." Zachariah whispered. "You shouldn't even try."

Then, with a flash of light, he was gone, and Dean was alone.

* * *

Balthazar tried to be careful as he cleaned his brother's wings, carefully removing damaged feathers, and washing away all the blood. It was a long, painstaking process, but one that Balthazar wouldn't have given up for the world. Every so often, Castiel would whimper in pain, and his elder brother would stop to soothe him, reminding him of the brighter times they had spent together. How they would play in the clouds, or watch the humans down below for hours on end. Castiel had always dreamed of venturing to Earth and walking among them...it was sad that he had gotten his wish in the worst way possible.

Once all his wounds were cleaned and dressed, Castiel lay nested in his brother's arms, still trapped in his human vessel. Balthazar wasn't sure if Castiel would ever be able to be free from it again...The sigils carved into his throat were powerful and ancient, too much for a mere warrior to break. The elder angel had done hours of painful research, finding only dead ends, and he worried that his brother would be trapped forever. Perhaps, when Castiel was stronger, they could attempt to burn them away, but many sigils had protection against such means.

"You'll grow older in this body." Balthazar whispered, running his fingers through the young man's hair. "Like a human. Isn't that what you always wanted?"

Castiel weakly gripped his brother's arm, and Balthazar instantly regretted his words as the young angel began to cry.

"Not like this." Castiel said. "I didn't want it like this."

"Hush." Balthazar whispered, cradling the young man to his chest. "We make the best with what we've got."

"I couldn't even complete my mission. I let that demon capture me...and I was _so close..."_

"Demons are the scourge of the world, Castiel." The elder man growled. "They can break down anyone, even angels-"

"Father must be so disappointed in me" Castiel sobbed. "That's why I'm in this body. It's punishment for my weakness."

"Stop that."

Balthazar held his brother tighter, cursing Azazel for what he'd done; cursing Zachariah for sending an inexperienced angel on what was clearly a suicide mission. He'd never forgive his superior for putting Castiel in such a position, for promising him honor and glory, filling his head with dreams and ideas. What angel didn't wish to help his Father in the war against the demons? What angel didn't wish to bring Michael's sword up to the heavens?

Eventually, Castiel fell into a light slumber, his eyes flickering shut and his body going lax in his brother's arms. Balthazar slowly carded his fingers through the young man's dark hair, blinking away the tears in his eyes that he had been trying so hard to hide.

He didn't like his brother being trapped in such a fragile shell...he didn't like knowing that any moment, the heart in his chest could stop beating, and Castiel would be locked within dead flesh for all eternity. Humanity was so weak, their bodies insubstantial. They weren't meant for angels. Castiel deserved to sing, and fly through the clouds again.

"I cannot stay in this heaven run by Zachariah." Balthazar whispered to his slumbering brother. "He threw you to that demon like you were nothing...like you were worthless. I'm going to get you out of here...and you can live on earth just like a human. You can have your wish without the fall."

Saying his thoughts out loud suddenly made it all too real, but Balthazar found that he wasn't afraid. He simply held his brother tighter, and rested with him through the rest of the night.


End file.
